


Face the Music

by hjbender



Series: Just Communication [5]
Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Clairvoyance, ESP, Flashbacks, Friendship/Love, M/M, Past Sexual Abuse, Sexual Content, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-02
Updated: 2016-08-29
Packaged: 2018-07-19 15:59:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7368091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hjbender/pseuds/hjbender
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's told Heero. He's told Cathy. Now Trowa is on his way to L4 to tell Quatre the horrific details about his past, hoping that this revelation will finally lend him the strength to tell Quatre how he really feels about him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Overture

Trowa didn’t pack much. A single carry-on that he sent through the conveyor belt with his leather jacket and picked up on the other side of the walk-though scanner. He draped the jacket over his arm and shouldered his pack, listened to nearby passengers mumble and gripe about the security. It was getting worse every year they said, shuffling though the queue like ill-tempered livestock. So invasive. So bothersome. It slowed everything down. Remember when all you had to do was walk through a metal detector? Sure, it’s been downhill ever since Meteor. Lots of crazies out there. Oh, didn’t you hear, they’re calling it the Earth Sphere Conflict now. Politicians . . .  
  
Trowa left the voices behind and made his way to the waiting area for Shuttle Flight 22 to L4. He spent some time standing before the tall glass window, watching the proceedings on the apron below. Tractors trundled between terminals, towing trailers of luggage. Workers in coveralls and orange vests jogged back and forth across the concrete, their collars raised against the morning’s light rain. Trowa looked up at the heavy masses of gray clouds, knowing that behind them lay a clear blue sky and sunshine. And beyond that, the quiet black of outer space, sharp white rays, the winking eyes of stars and planets. And beyond that, the rest of Everything.  
  
Catherine had seen him as far as the first security checkpoint, her face long and tired. A line had formed between her eyebrows recently, making her appear older than her twenty-six years. She gave Trowa a hug and kissed his cheek—she had to step up on her toes to do it now, he had gotten so tall—and wished him the best. He _would_ call, wouldn’t he?  
  
“Of course,” said Trowa, smiling gently. “Tell Emilio not to set the camper on fire while I’m gone.”  
  
Catherine laughed, said she would keep an eye on the Flammable Mister E, and the Bloom siblings concluded their goodbyes.  
  
Roughly an hour later Trowa was stowing his pack in the overhead compartment and sitting down. He always seemed to get stuck beside the window whenever he flew, probably just the way the seating assignments fell. He would have preferred the aisle. He crossed his arms and leaned his head back, wondering about odds and statistics and letting the numbers roll through his mind. Heero was right—it _was_ pretty relaxing.  
  
Heero.  
  
Three weeks had passed since their meeting in Munich. Three weeks since Trowa told Heero the secret that had been eating his guts for the last six years. The same secret he’d told Catherine a few days ago.  
  
She had been horrified, just as Trowa predicted. She had wept tears of anger and helplessness and apologized for everything that had happened, her voice scratching a familiar waltz of should have, would have, could have. It wasn’t her fault, obviously. It wasn’t her brother’s fault. If anyone was to blame it was the son of Dekim Barton, a man with a penchant for mysterious loners like the nameless young soldier he’d met in 194. But that man was dead now, and it was time to release his toxic ghost to the ether.  
  
Just one more person to tell, then Trowa Bloom could start living again.  
  
He looked out the window and saw his own flat expression reflected thinly back at him: a calm sea hiding the teeming tangle of monsters that lived in the deep.  
  
He released a long, measured breath.  
  
Why was it that the most difficult things always came last?

* * *

**A.C. 195**  
  
The trip from Corsica to Isola Razzoli was short, but hard on Heavyarms’s thrusters. The Gundam was built to stand and defend, not for uninterrupted flight. Trowa monitored his propulsion systems for signs of overheating and obediently followed the gold and gray mobile suit. An armed escort of twelve desert-class MS flanked him, ready to pitch in and destroy him if he gave the slightest indication of resistance. These men were very protective of their young leader. Trowa wondered if they were part of an authentic military corps. They were too organized to be guerrillas, too loyal to be mercenaries.  
  
A modified C-5 Galaxy was waiting at the tiny Sardinian airstrip carved out of Razzoli’s rocky terrain. A second aircraft was taxiing from the runway to the loading area, having apparently just been called in.  
  
Trowa’s short range communicator clicked, and the voice of the other pilot came on. “ _My men will load your mobile suit first. You can join the others on the passenger deck or stay in your cockpit, whatever you prefer, over._ ”  
  
“Where are we going?” Trowa asked, not bothering to use correct voice procedure.  
  
“ _Someplace safe. That’s all I can tell you, over._ ”  
  
“Why should I trust you?”  
  
There was a pause. “ _I can’t give you a single reason right now. You just have to believe me. Over._ ”  
  
Trowa rolled his lips, thinking. There were several possible outcomes to this, most of them bad. At the worst he could be killed and his Gundam turned over to the Alliance. The latter concerned him more than the former, naturally; however, this new pilot seemed opposed to the Alliance as well, and the similarities between their suits and combat abilities led Trowa to believe that this might possibly be a second Gundam. If that were the case, it would be in his best interest to cooperate.  
  
Trowa pressed the button on his communicator. “Copy, wilco. Remaining in cockpit. Standing by until further instruction. Over and out.”  
  
He hated being in a position of relying on hope. But right now it was all that he could do.  
  
From Sardinia the two enormous aircraft thundered across the sky and touched down in Algiers ninety minutes later. They refueled quickly and took off at a course of roughly 195 degrees, south-southwest. Trowa pinged their location through an encrypted satellite, watching the green dot of his Gundam moving slowly across his viewscreen. When he felt the landing gear come down an hour later, he was puzzled. From the satellite images, they appeared to be in the northwest corner of the Sahara Desert. There was absolutely nothing out here.  
  
Nothing except a hydraulic runway that rose from the sand to meet the incoming aircraft, and a massive subterranean military base. Trowa was soundly impressed. Whoever the pilot was, he either had an extensive logistics network or more money than God. Maybe both.  
  
He stepped off the C-5’s front gangway and met the other pilot on the hangar floor. Behind them a team of workers began calling out debarkation instructions for “Master Quatre’s Gundam”. Trowa narrowed his eyes at the bright, friendly face before him. So it was true. There was another. This was quite—  
  
“Well, this is certainly a surprise,” said the pilot cheerfully. “I never thought there’d be more than one Gundam. I wonder which of us is the backup.” He chuckled. With his large blue eyes and round cheeks he appeared many years younger than he probably was. Only his voice betrayed his age, a cordial, educated baritone.  
  
Trowa didn’t waste time with niceties. “Where are we?”  
  
“Algeria. This is one of our desert bases.”  
  
“One?”  
  
A modest shrug. “We have three across the Middle East; this one, another in Egypt, and another in Oman. My family has an ancestral home near Najran in Saudi Arabia. It’s more comfortable there, but not quite as secure.”  
  
Trowa watched the workers roll Heavyarms out of the aircraft. “You’re very trusting,” he said.  
  
“Only with people I know I can trust.”  
  
“For all you know I could be a spy.”  
  
“Maybe. Or you could be just like me.”  
  
Trowa returned his gaze to the pilot, who extended his hand.  
  
“My name is Quatre Raberba Winner.”  
  
Trowa stood still. “I have no name.”  
  
An awkward expression crossed Quatre’s face. His fingers curled and his hand began to retreat.  
  
“But if you must call me something, call me Trowa.” He reached out and grasped the small hand firmly. “Trowa Barton.”  
  
Quatre grinned. It was like the sun breaking from behind the clouds. “Trowa Barton. It’s a pleasure.”

* * *

The shuttle emerged from the dense clouds of the troposphere and soared into the light, blue skies on every side. Trowa inhaled and exhaled deeply. No turning back now. Five minutes into a 12-hour flight. Plenty of time to think. Maybe too much time. He could try to sleep; he could certainly use it, having gotten so little over the last few days.  
  
Trowa reclined his seat a few clicks and closed his eyes, threading his fingers together over his stomach. He needed to recharge, bolster his mind and his heart. He didn’t want Quatre to pick up on his high-strung emotional state within the first five seconds of their meeting. He wanted to be cool and calm, like how he used to be during the War. This was going to be tough. Trowa was a master of deception, but Quatre was the only person who could see right through him every time, no matter how convincing his disguise. It was a valuable talent to have, however unintentionally invasive it seemed to others. Trowa always felt naked in Quatre’s presence, fearful he might look too deeply into his heart and see the ugliness he was trying to hide.  
  
Green eyes opened and stared at the cabin ceiling above, seeing and yet not seeing.  
  
So that was it. That was why he yearned for Quatre’s presence and yet couldn’t stand to be around him. It was fear. Not fear of the dark, but the fear of sight. Irrational, stupid fear that Quatre would see the damage and throw him away, horrified and revolted, all his love replaced with pity and shame. That was why. _That was why_.  
  
Trowa felt his pulse quicken in his wrists, his ears, his chest. His fingers dug into the backs of his hands.  
  
He was on his way to share those secrets now. He was going to pull the shroud off his scarred, mutilated past like a magician, hand extended, showing the world once and for all who and what he really was. A son. A brother. A survivor.  
  
And a lover. That was what he wanted, what he wanted _to be_. Something in addition to a friend and companion. Once he revealed the wholeness of himself to Quatre, everything that was and is and ever shall be, the chains of the past would fall away and he would finally be free. He would be a new man, able to express his love without the fear of those hideous days encroaching on him like a pack of wolves, waiting to devour his joy. He would be invulnerable, unbreakable. He would be bulletproof.  
  
The shuttle entered the lower stratosphere, leaving the clouds behind.

* * *

“You must be tired after your ordeal,” said Quatre helpfully. “We have showers and plenty of beds, and an infirmary if you need it. Please, make yourself at home.”  
  
Trowa kept his eye on the technicians examining Heavyarms. “I don’t plan on staying.”  
  
Quatre’s eyebrows went up. “Don’t you want your Gundam repaired? It shouldn’t take more than twenty-four hours. We could reequip you, too. My crew are more than willing t—”  
  
“I don’t require any more of your assistance,” said Trowa sharply. “Unless you plan on imprisoning me here, I’ll be leaving shortly.”  
  
If Quatre was offended, he didn’t show it. “You’re free to go whenever you like,” he said, “though I don’t think you’ll last long out there on your own. This base is surrounded by over four hundred thousand square kilometers of barren, scorching desert. The _kamasin_ are active this time of year and sandstorms are as frequent as they are unpredictable. If you try to leave in your damaged mobile suit and encounter one of these storms, you’ll be buried alive in less than an hour. You’ll leave no trace. No one will ever find you, no one will know where to search for you, and if your CO2 filtration system isn’t destroyed by the sand, the sun will heat the air in the cockpit until it’s too hot to breathe. If you don’t suffocate, you’ll be forced to abandon your Gundam, providing you are able to dig yourself out from under several feet of sand. And if you survive that, then what? You’ll wander the desert for a day or two until the sun finally kills you. My friend”—Quatre stepped close, his face grave—“you won’t stand a chance if you leave this base tonight.”  
  
There was a brief but profound silence.  
  
Trowa folded his arms against his chest. “So,” he murmured, “essentially I’ve become your prisoner.”  
  
“Whether you’re my prisoner or my guest is entirely up to you.” Quatre broke the tension with a smile. “In fact, I’d like it if you joined us for dinner this evening. Nothing fancy, of course, just the standard fare. Your company would be appreciated.” His expression was hopeful.  
  
Trowa waited to see if he would plead. It didn’t happen. The boy had some degree of self-respect, at least.  
  
“Alright,” he said finally.  
  
Quatre appeared satisfied. “Excellent. Dinner’s at 18:30, so you’ll have plenty of time to get situated. I’ll have Hamal there show you to your room. If you have any questions, don’t hesitate to ask. We’re all friends here.” He inclined his head and excused himself.  
  
Trowa watched him stride across the hangar floor, his posture erect and his movements graceful, despite the playful little bounce in his step. Quatre Raberba Winner. An elegant child, a humble prince. What an antithetic blend of characteristics.  
  
Hamal approached Trowa and interrupted his gazing. “Right this way, _zayir_.”  
  
As Trowa fell into step behind the man, he found it difficult not to look over his shoulder.  
  
Such is the case when we find something that attracts us.

* * *

The mess hall was spotless, its walls and pillars painted livid and ivory instead of the ghastly putty that was typical of most military institutions. The lights shined off the polished concrete floor, creating a cheery brightness. Large pieces of framed artwork, reproductions of a watercolor series featuring oases and dunes, filled the void that windows would have occupied. Classical music played quietly over the intercom. It felt more like a resort dining room than the grubby army cafeterias Trowa was accustomed to. The tasteful surroundings seemed to have a soothing effect on the men. There was much laughter and easy conversation, no foul language, no crude jokes.  
  
Quatre sat with his team—the Maganacs, he called them—as if he were one of them, though they addressed him as “Master Quatre” and spoke with the utmost deference. Trowa had never seen such an unusual dynamic among soldiers. At least the food was familiar. Some type of chicken served over yellow rice. Tomatoes and cucumbers. Dried dates and apricots. It wasn’t anything to rave about, but it was certainly better than MREs. Trowa had no problem clearing his tray.  
  
Toward the end of the meal, Quatre stood and raised his plastic cup. The hall went quiet, only the largo from Handel’s _Serse_ opera murmuring from the ceiling.  
  
“I’d like to take a moment and thank everyone for their efforts at Corsica Airbase today,” he declared over the slow, expressive strings. “This victory belongs to you. Technicians, soldiers, volunteers. We were successful because of your dedication and support, without which we would have failed from the moment this Operation began. I thank each and every one of you, and hope that years from now you’ll look back fondly on these days, and never forget the bonds of camaraderie that helped us accomplish so much.”  
  
Quatre’s tone became more solemn. “Let us neither forget those who lost their lives today, the soldiers we would have called brother in better days than these. I raise a glass to their memory, and to a hopefully brief war—may peace not be far behind it.”  
  
There was a peal of soft applause, followed by echoes toasting to resolution and peace. Quatre nodded to his comrades, then resumed his seat.  
  
Trowa was quietly astounded. “You speak very well.”  
  
“Thank you,” said Quatre, his cheeks glowing.  
  
“It was an eloquent sentiment. Naïve, but eloquent.”  
  
Quatre just smiled. “Well, I’m too young to know everything just yet. I haven’t the wisdom of your advanced years. Perhaps that’s something we can rectify in our future conversations?”  
  
The words were bold, but the blue eyes twinkling and mischievous over the rim of his cup. Trowa had to fight the urge to grin.  
  
“Perhaps,” he agreed.

* * *

Trowa ended up staying six days in the Middle East. The technicians repaired Heavyarms and refitted the beam gatling, but there wasn’t much they could do about the hard-state ammunition other than the homing missiles. Both Sandrock and Heavyarms took the same caliber shells, further supporting the theory that these Gundams shared a common designer.  
  
While the engineers familiarized themselves with Heavyarms, Quatre familiarized himself with his guest. Or he tried. Trowa spoke very little, answered no questions about his mission or anything related to him personally, but Quatre nonetheless found pleasure in his company. Trowa’s reticence, which would have put off any normal person, was politely accepted and accommodated, and had no impact on Quatre’s graciousness toward him. He showed Trowa around the base, gave him a change of clothing to wear—a _kurta_ top and _sirwal_ trousers, very different but quite comfortable—while Trowa’s own garments were laundered. And he brought Trowa to his home near Najran.  
  
He introduced Trowa to the household staff as if he were an old friend of the family, gave him his own room, and allowed him to explore the palatial premises at his leisure, unattended.  
  
Trowa couldn’t understand it. Quatre was cultured, sophisticated, and highly intelligent, knowledgeable in matters of business and politics, possessing a shrewd and practical sensibility. Hardly the sort of person who would fraternize with a stranger of dubious allegiance. Yet he seemed to understand that Trowa meant him no harm, that Trowa wasn’t rude or unappreciative simply because he was quiet. If anything, Quatre seemed to like him and expressed an unspoken desire to be his friend.  
  
That was something else Trowa couldn’t understand. He’d never seen anything in himself that others might value or be attracted to. What did he have to offer? He was gangly, ugly, badly-dressed, his voice was too weak, he had no resources except what he could steal, he wasn’t nearly as educated as Quatre, there was absolutely nothing they had in common. Or so Trowa thought, until that last afternoon at the Winner Estate.  
  
The sound of a violin caught Trowa’s ear from out in the central courtyard. He closed the book he’d been reading and stood from his seat on the edge of the fountain. The musician was just beginning to warm up, creamy scales and arpeggios rolling through the air, a short pause every now and then to tune a string. Trowa set his book on a nearby table and went to find the source.  
  
In a room overlooking the courtyard, Quatre stood before his leggio and played the second movement of _Winter_ from Vivaldi’s _Four Seasons_ , one of his favorite pieces, a good song with which to warm up.  
  
Trowa appeared in the doorway, took a few cautious steps inside. The sound of the violin was exquisite. When he closed his eyes he saw the icicles dangling from pine needles like diamond earrings, sparkling in the pale winter light. He felt the sharp bite of frost, smelled the freshness of the trees. Snowflakes drifting through the air, rolling like curtains in the wind. Delicate crystal formations, branches upon branches of ice, beauty unseen by the naked eye.  
  
The vision ended with the sustained E flat, and Trowa opened his eyes. Quatre was gazing at him over the shining amber body of his violin, still tucked under his chin.  
  
Trowa wet his lips. “There’s a song I heard long ago,” he said slowly, “when I was a child. I don’t know the name. But it goes like . . .” He began to hum. Clear, warm notes of a tune that rose and descended along a double harmonic scale like a mountain range in some distant land.  
  
Quatre’s eyes lit up with recognition and he put his bow to the strings, picking up the melody mid-phrase. Their notes were a perfect match.  
  
Trowa stopped humming and listened, watching the song envelop Quatre. The violin sang with beautiful clarity, high and sweet, the slurs like satin ribbons joining the notes together. Quatre closed his eyes and swayed with the music, fingers dancing on the fretboard while his arm drew the bow smoothly back and forth across the strings.  
  
This was a song that lived on the dark edges of Trowa’s memory, evoking images of a campfire and deep voices, strong arms that held him. It filled his heart with a deluge of raw emotion, reminded him of things he imagined had once been his—family, laughter, love.  
  
He crossed the room silently and stood before Quatre, who drew out the final note as if savoring the last drop of a rare wine. Quatre opened his eyes, lowered his arms. He was breathing heavily. Trowa stared down at him, his soul stripped naked in the wake of the haunting tune.  
  
“That was Béla Bartók,” Quatre whispered as the distance between them closed. “ _Song of the Mountain Horn_.”  
  
Trowa’s hands tightened into fists as his eyes explored the handsome contours of Quatre’s face. He had never wanted to touch something so badly in his life. “I never knew its name,” he heard himself say.  
  
Quatre let out a trembling breath and shut his eyes—an invitation. He could feel the heat of Trowa’s face as it came near. “You have perfect pitch,” he said, struggling. “I’ve never met anyone . . . who . . .”  
  
Trowa raised his hand to touch Quatre’s cheek, tilting his head as he came down, their breath on each other’s lips.  
  
Footsteps sounded in the hall outside. The moment cracked, then shattered as eyes flew open, panic and guilt thrusting them away from one another.  
  
The majordomo appeared, a thin, sedate-looking old fellow. “Pardon my intrusion, Master Quatre,” he said, “but Mister Rashid will be arriving shortly with Master Trowa’s, er, _vehicle_.”  
  
Quatre forced a smile. “Thank”—his voice cracked—“thank you, Mikail. Please make arrangements for my return to base this evening. I’ll be flying back with Rashid.”  
  
“Of course, sir. Would that be before or after dinner?”  
  
“Before. I’d like to get back with my men and discuss our next course of action.”  
  
“Very well, sir. I’ll have your things waiting for you in the foyer.”  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
Mikail disappeared.  
  
Quatre slowly raised his eyes to Trowa’s. In spite of his vast vocabulary, he could find no words to say.  
  
Trowa lowered his gaze, turned, and began to walk away.  
  
“I know we’ll meet again,” Quatre blurted to his back, “so I won’t say goodbye . . . Safe travels, my friend.”  
  
The last two words rang in Trowa’s head like cries on a mountaintop, their echoes settling into the bottom of his heart. _My friend._ He set his teeth on edge and hurried from the room.  
  
Before he let his guard down a second time.

* * *

Trowa’s eyes opened and he was awake. He clicked his seat into its upright position again and looked out the window. Black, a few tiny twinkles. The artificial gravity was on now, the computers steadily adjusting the newtons as the shuttle increased its distance from Earth’s orbit. It felt to Trowa like they had just entered the LEO Zone. He must have only drifted off for about 30 minutes.  
  
He glanced at the passenger beside him, a petite older woman with a well-developed fashion sense. She seemed to be alright. A little peaked in the face, but not a complete stranger to gravitational fluctuations. Some newcomers to space, older adults in particular, experienced Space Adaptation Syndrome—motion sickness attributed to changes in gravity. Children were usually more resilient. Trowa remembered only his amazement the first time he left Earth’s orbit. He halfway wanted to say something to the woman to take her mind off of her discomfort, but he was afraid it would open the door to a 12-hour marathon of chitchat and awkward silences. Better to just mind his own business.  
  
Trowa leaned his head against the seat and stared out the window. A satellite passed by, little more than a bright dot against the backdrop of the universe. He sighed. Moments like these were a perfect illustration of the ponderous weight of time, and how swiftly it moves toward the things we dread.

* * *

Quatre couldn’t help looking at his watch. He did it as covertly as possible, not wanting to seem rude to Mr Forray, the young, red-haired executive director of Winner Construction who was giving an enthusiastic quarterly report at today’s board meeting. Quatre liked Greg Forray, but he could never hear his name and not think of French composer Gabriel Fauré, and subsequently get the first few bars of _Pavane_ stuck in his head for the rest of the day. It was a pleasant enough tune, a little melancholy, still better than most earworms.  
  
The meeting wrapped up just after 12:30. Quatre shook hands with all the directors of Winner Corp’s subsidiaries, thanked them for coming and for the good work they were doing, and was obligated to join a small contingent for lunch. Quatre would rather have gone back to his apartment and finished up some of his tasks ahead of the weekend, but such is the life of a corporate executive. He truly loved what he did and was excited about the new projects—such as the Willawin Scholarship Program and the White Poppy Foundation, an organization established to help those colonists disabled, widowed or orphaned by war—but sometimes he wished there were three more of him on which he could spread some of the burden. This idea was usually superseded by a reminder of the twenty-nine IVF daughters Zayid Winner had fabricated in a desperate 20-year bid for a son, and Quatre ended up rescinding his thoughtless wish every time. Life was precious, he believed, and not to be idly conceived. That was why he decided years ago that children were never going to be a part of his future—at least biologically speaking. He would continue to help the ones that were already here, work to build a peaceful future for them. Quatre felt it was more than just his duty. It was the purpose of his existence. Do good, love one another, fight the good fight, help those in need.  
  
He was worn out but in a good mood by the time he finally got back to the office around 14:00. His assistant Patricia had gathered all the paperwork and files he would need over the weekend, and arranged them neatly on his desk. All Quatre had to do was shovel them into his briefcase and make his escape. The phone rang on his way out, and Patricia picked it up. Quatre froze in the doorway and sent her a desperate look.  
  
“I’m sorry, but you just missed him,” she said, waving goodbye to her very grateful boss. “Could I take a message?”  
  
Quatre caught a taxi back to his second-floor apartment in Chelsea Gardens, unburdened himself at the door, and sank into the sofa with a grateful sigh. He slipped off his shoes and stretched his legs out on the coffee table—very plebeian of him, but what the hell, this was his place, said a voice that sounded very much like Duo’s. He could really go for a glass of _citron pressé_ and some Ludovico Einaudi right now, but he didn’t feel like moving. He’d have to move eventually—Trowa’s shuttle would be coming in around 19:00 this evening, and Quatre said he’d meet him at the spaceport.  
  
He grinned and grabbed a nearby throw pillow, hugging it to his chest. _Trowa would be here soon_. He felt positively giddy. It had been so long since they’d last spent any time together. There had been the circus in Buenos Aires last year—what an unforgettable experience, such a beautiful city—then the daytrip to the big aquarium at L1, and the few brief appearances Trowa made during Catherine’s kidney issues in the late spring. Other than that, communication was restricted to emails, phone calls, and the occasional vidchat when the satellites feeds were good and strong. July was the last time they’d seen each other in person. It was already mid-September.  
  
Quatre suddenly ached for Trowa’s presence. He allowed the pining, promising feelings to consume him and he toppled over onto his side with a wistful laugh, squeezing the pillow until the seams squeaked. He was aware of how ridiculous he must look, but he tried not to care. Surely love made a lot of intelligent people look silly.  
  
He closed his eyes and retreated into his mind, finding the door that led to a dusky room overlooking a courtyard, where a titillating little fantasy of his had been living for years. There he was, playing a fervent, arabesque tune on his violin, and here came Trowa, quietly walking in to listen. Sometimes he wore the whitewashed jeans and green sweater of his youth, sometimes dark trousers and a white shirt with the collar open to his chest. Sometimes he wore no shirt at all. Today he was dressed in a t-shirt and jeans, setting down his bag and removing the leather jacket that smelled faintly of cigarettes and musky deodorant.  
  
Quatre snuggled down into the couch and let the scene play out. It was a little different every time, but it always ended the same way: the violin disappearing but the song continuing, the two of them coming together in an embrace, Trowa’s desire pressing hard against him as arms and clothes and body heat formed a loving, inseparable knot. The tender, husky whisper of Trowa’s voice in his ear, speaking the words he had been waiting to hear since 195. The kiss that followed, the nervous and oft-bitten lips now confident and earnest, hands sliding down Quatre’s hips and squeezing his buttocks, reinforcing the words that echoed in the music’s seamless loop . . .  
  
The story played on in Quatre’s head, lulling him to sleep as it had for many, many nights.

* * *

Trowa awoke suddenly, his lips parted and his breath coming fast. Had he said something just now? His throat was tingling with the familiar sensation of having broken a long period of silence. He studied his fellow passenger peripherally. The woman was reading a magazine. No indication that she had heard anything. Trowa settled back into his seat and clamped his lower lip between his teeth, as if this would annul anything he might have carelessly spoken.  
  
When had he fallen asleep? Had he been dreaming? Trowa was not a dreamer. His sleep was consistently dark and any somnolent imagery quickly forgotten. But he felt, certainly and inexplicably, that someone had called to him and he had answered.  
  
Trowa stood up and pardoned himself as he squeezed past the woman, who politely tucked her legs beneath her seat to accommodate him. He went to the lavatory and availed himself of its facilities, washing his hands in the stainless steel basin afterward. He patted wet hands on his face and met his own eyes in the mirror. His pupils were large, his cheeks unusually hot. He hoped he wasn’t coming down with something. The last thing he needed was to give Quatre a col—  
  
_Quatre_.  
  
That sunny, lovely face loomed to the forefront of Trowa’s thoughts. A memory? No, it couldn’t be. Trowa had never seen Quatre like _that_ , his eyes half closed and his neck bare, soft blond hair falling away from his forehead, his lips smiling and forming the two syllables of Trowa’s name.  
  
It came upon him suddenly, a warm wave of arousal that poured into him and made his legs quiver. Trowa braced himself against the walls as the image (was it in the mirror or his mind?) changed, now Quatre’s eyes were closed and he was throwing his head back, the white column of his throat arching as he cried out in ecstasy.  
  
Trowa’s legs nearly buckled. “Oh God,” he uttered, catching himself on the side of the sink. Where was this coming from? Surely not his own brain. His imagination was limited to the realistic, the pragmatic. Fantasies and daydreams were alien landscapes, nonsensical and useless to him. But apparently very stimulating.  
  
The vision of Quatre writhed beneath him in shades of cream and rose.  
  
_I want you._  
  
I know, Trowa thought, struggling for control. I want you too.  
  
_When?_  
  
Soon.  
  
_I can’t wait._  
  
Trowa clenched his teeth. You’re going to have to. Right now I can’t . . . it’s too . . .  
  
The vision darkened. Shadows fell across Quatre’s face, suddenly much younger, wide-eyed, scared. Trowa heard his own voice, hard and ugly, and the horrifically familiar words. _Soak it up, sweetheart. Don’t I feel good?_  
  
Oh God, no, not this.  
  
_It hurts, Trowa._  
  
_Shh, relax, baby. Just hang on. It’ll get better, you’ll see._  
  
God, please, no.  
  
_Come for me, gorgeous. That’s it, baby, just like_ —  
  
“No!” Trowa cried, and tumbled out of the lavatory and onto the carpet.  
  
The shadows vanished. The voices went silent.  
  
Trowa lifted his head to see half the shuttle’s occupants staring at him. He pulled himself to his feet, head spinning, grunted something about a spider in the sink. He numbly found his way back to his seat, sank down and put his hand over his face. He felt like throwing up.  
  
“Young man.”  
  
Trowa uncovered his face. The woman beside him was offering a wet towel that the steward had apparently dropped off at her request.  
  
“Thanks, but I—”  
  
“It is cold,” said the woman, her accent flowery and French. “Put it on te back of your neck, daling. You will feel better.”  
  
“Thank you,” Trowa said softly, and did what she advised. His nausea began to dissipate. “Thank you,” he repeated, meaning it this time.  
  
She smiled and picked up her magazine again.  
  
“Did I say anything earlier?” Trowa asked after a few moments had passed. “When I was asleep.”  
  
The woman hesitated a beat. “Yes.”  
  
Trowa closed his eyes. Imagination; why was it that his seemed to conjure only the absolute worst scenarios?  
  
“What did I say?” he asked finally.  
  
“Just two words. I cannot be sure,” she said, “but it sounded like ‘my friend’.”


	2. Requiem

Trowa was opening the hatch of Heavyarms’s cockpit before the Gundam had fully settled from its landing. He leaped onto the catwalk and yanked off his helmet, dropping it as he jogged toward Sandrock. The doors were sliding back as Trowa approached. He put one hand on the rail and launched himself across the gap, landing neatly on Sandrock’s gangplank.

“Quatre!” he called, leaning into the shadowy cockpit. It was saturated with the heavy odor of blood, sweat, and something else. Something dark and gutty.

Quatre raised his head and smiled. “Trowa . . .” His face was ashen. Beads of sweat clung to his skin, which glowed a cadaverous green in the LEDs.

“I’m here, Quatre.” There was an odd quaver in Trowa’s voice. He reached over and removed Quatre’s helmet, began unbuckling his harness. The bloodstain on the lower left flank of Quatre’s flight suit had gotten larger since he’d last seen it. There was a sticky rip as he pulled him from the seat, leaving behind a flower of blood on the upholstery. It was distressingly large.

Quatre suddenly squeezed Trowa and vomited over his shoulder like a dyspeptic infant. Despite the piercing pain in his abdomen, he still had enough sensibility to be embarrassed. “Oh God, I’m sorry, Trowa,” he moaned. “I’m so disgusting, I—”

“No, you’re not,” said Trowa, slipping one arm around Quatre’s waist and the other under his knees. “You’re beautiful and strong and kind, and the most amazing person I know. Hang on to me, Quatre.”

Quatre hooked his right arm around Trowa’s neck and closed his eyes. He felt himself being lifted, winced as the bright lights of the hangar fell on his eyelids. Trowa’s landing sent a bolt of agony lancing through him, hot but fleeting. Then he relaxed, giving himself up to the fatigue and dull-headedness he had been fighting off for the last two hours.

Trowa hurried down the catwalk, rolling his heels to cushion the shock of his footfalls.

“You really think I’m beautiful?” Quatre asked deliriously. A pleasant darkness was coming upon him now. He couldn’t be sure, but for a moment he thought he felt Trowa’s nose press against the top of his head.

“Of course. Stay with me, Quatre. Please.”

“I’m tired. Just wanna . . . go to . . .”

The black curtain of unconsciousness fell over him.

* * *

Quatre’s eyes opened two days later in a quiet hospital room. He stared up at the ceiling for a several long moments, blinking away the foggy hangover of anesthetics and coma, returning slowly to himself. He shifted carefully under the pale blue covers. There was an IV in his left arm, an electrode on his wrist; an ECG sat on a rolling cart beside his bed, beats ticking silently across the screen in triplicate. The numbers looked good. Everything normal and steady. The room was empty.

Quatre started to sit up, then remembered why he was here. He relaxed, laid back down. His hand crawled under the covers and down his left side, tracing the outline of a thick, padded bandage and medical tape beneath his soft cotton gown. He felt an identical bandage on the other side, where the Catalonia girl’s sabre had exited. He hoped she had gotten out alright. There wasn’t very much pain—a dull throb, some soreness. Quatre suspected he was under the influence of a mild analgesic. He wondered how he’d gotten here, what day it was. He didn’t even remember landing.

The doorknob turned and in stepped Trowa, looking tired and unkempt. He wore a gray sweatshirt that seemed too large for him, and jeans rumpled from many hours of sitting. He carried a Biofoam cup of coffee in his hand.

The spikes on the ECG machine suddenly doubled.

Trowa’s eyes met Quatre’s delighted face; he hesitated for half a second, then set his coffee on a nearby surface and hastened to the bed. “Quatre,” he said, losing the rest of his sentence as he paused timidly at the bedside, staring down into turquoise eyes.

“Trowa,” whispered Quatre, and raised his left hand, tubes dangling, fingers stretching.

For a while Trowa stood there mutely, lips pinched between his teeth. Finally he reached out and took the offered hand with both of his, cupping it like a wounded bird. He released a sigh and blinked shiny wet eyes. They looked like green stones at the bottom of a clear brook.

“Don’t cry, Trowa,” said Quatre gently. “I’m alright.”

“I know. That’s why . . . I’m happy.” Trowa smiled and sniffed.

Quatre felt his heart begin to glow like the core of a newborn star. His raised his right arm and laid his hand on top of Trowa’s, forming three layers of blood and bone and flesh. He opened his mouth, ready to speak the words he’d been holding back for seven long, confusing, bloody months.

“Trowa, I know this might seem sudden—” was as far as he got before his eyes were suddenly drawn to something in the background. Rashid’s massive frame filled the doorway. The tender expression on the man’s stern, implacable face was nearly comical.

“Master Quatre,” he rumbled. “May we come in?”

“We?”

Abdul and Auda poked in their heads on either side of Rashid. “Master Quatre!” they cheered, and Rashid was obliged to move aside so they could rush into the room.

Trowa lowered his eyes and released Quatre’s hand, stepping back as the Maganacs reached his bed. Quatre held on for as long as he could, his eyes pleading, fingers tightening. Then they were empty.

He put on a smile as Auda and Abdul exclaimed how glad they were that he was awake, the surgery took hours and they were worried, where was the worthless dog that did this, was there anything he needed, was he comfortable, and so on. They would have continued in this way for the next fifteen minutes if Quatre hadn’t interrupted them.

“Thanks, fellas, but I’m fine . . . I think. You said I was in surgery?”

“You had a perforated bowel,” said Abdul gravely. “It took them a while to patch all the holes.”

“The surgeon said it just narrowly missed your kidney,” Auda added.

“You bled a lot. It was a close call!”

As the two filled Quatre in on all the gory details, Trowa quietly slipped toward the door. He was crossing the threshold when Rashid’s heavy hand planted itself on his shoulder. He looked up at the fierce, bearded man, whose eyes had become soft and grateful.

“Thank you for taking care of Quatre,” he said quietly. “For protecting him when we couldn’t. For saving his life . . . and his heart.”

Trowa turned his face away. “He saved mine first.”

Rashid was silent a moment before he continued. “We’ll be taking him home to Najran when he’s released. He’ll need a couple weeks to recuperate. I’m sure he’d enjoy your company during that time.”

There was no response.

Rashid gave Trowa’s shoulder a firm squeeze. “If you need anything, the Maganacs are with you. Any friend of Quatre’s is a friend of ours.”

“Thank you.”

The hand lifted, and Trowa walked away. He was halfway down the hall when Rashid called to him.

“ _Sadiq_.”

Trowa looked over his shoulder.

“He loves you. Don’t wait too long.”

Trowa nodded numbly and resumed his stride. He didn’t dare look back.

* * *

He never went to see Quatre after he was discharged. It would have been too much, returning to that place where the connection was first made, where he had become Somebody to Someone Else. It was safer here, in the circus, with his alias and his costume and his mask, where all people wanted was the cheapest, most anonymous part of him. Somersaults and tightropes. _Well done, good show, Barton._ Those things were effortless, purely mechanical, and Trowa did them with almost no thought.

But it didn’t alleviate the guilt that accumulated on his conscience, brick by brick, day by day. Great cinderblocks named COWARD and HEARTBREAKER that followed him on chains and settled on his chest as he lay in bed at night, trying to remember what sleep was.

He knew he was attracted to Quatre, caught irresistibly in his orbit like astral debris around a benevolent star. He hadn’t meant to wander this far off course. He was supposed to drift through the cosmos of life, solitary and nameless, avoiding the pull of other celestial bodies, before finally fading away into oblivion.

In less than a year all that had changed. He had met Someone. A boy whose presence he both craved and dreaded. A young aristocrat who spoke beautiful words and made beautiful music and was as passionate as he was gentle, the scope of his brilliance outmatched only by his kindness and humility. Quatre was everything Trowa wasn’t, would never be: a naked sponge into which the world was absorbed, out of which a multitude of emotions could be wrung; an unprotected, vulnerable heart floating in the center of the universe, pulling everything, good and bad, toward it. No shield, no barriers, no modest veil to hide its loveliness from the things that could harm it.

It flew in the face of everything Trowa knew about being human. It defied the principles that had been drilled into him from his infancy: survive, retaliate, defend. Stay sharp, look out for Number One. The world is a devouring beast and no one can be trusted. So why did he find Quatre’s tender, open mien so appealing? It should have horrified him, not thrilled him. He should be rushing to protect Quatre and cover him with something instead of reveling in the light his unclad soul exuded. Bury the beautiful thing, dampen its glow, keep it safe and hidden and locked somewhere out of sight. Wasn’t that the appropriate thing to do when one found something precious?

As terrifying and perplexing as his feelings for Quatre were, they paled in comparison to the gutwrenching void his absence created in Trowa’s life. Trowa liked this alien, pretty thing that was growing inside him, the blossoms that unfurled each time he saw Quatre’s face. It gave him strength, made him feel good about himself and the future. It gave him hope. And that meant more to him than the security offered by any armor, any weapon, any stronghold.

It took five years for Trowa to come to terms will all this. Five painful years of yearning to realize how important Quatre was to him, how much he loved him and wanted to see him shine every day for the rest of his life. He wanted to open himself up and share everything he had, everything he was, with Quatre. He was on his way now. He was finally, _finally_ , going to do it.

But he wasn’t alone. The past was with him, a mordant shadow clinging to his back, teeth and claws bared, waiting for its last opportunity to tear the blossoming vine to pieces.

* * *

“Connecting Flight 22-A071 (Kensington) arriving in approximately twenty minutes,” declared the computerized female voice, interrupting the soft rock on the intercom. The sentence was repeated, echoing through the small spaceport terminal. Outside, the thick doors of the shuttle bay slid slowly open, allowing a view into the bottomless inkwell of outer space.

Quatre looked down at his watch. 18:39. Right on schedule.

_Trowa was coming._

His heart fluttered and he took a deep breath. He would be here very soon, a matter of minutes. Tall and lean and handsome, his breathy voice saying “Hello, Quatre,” or maybe “Hi, Quat” if he was feeling comfortable and relaxed. And Quatre would say hello, they would stand and gaze at each other like they always did at first, savoring and appraising, looking for little changes in their appearances as they both waded deeper into their 20s.

Quatre’s legs jittered restlessly and he rose from his chair and began to pace the length of the terminal. Every now and then he’d glance over at the broad window along the wall, hoping to see the white glint of the shuttle coming in to dock. His fingers rubbed against each other anxiously.

He had changed clothes three times before finally stepping out of his apartment. Everything he put on either felt too stuffy and formal or so casual it looked contrived. The blazer and sateen shirt hadn’t worked, nor had the jeans and fitted vest, nor had the slacks and suspenders. Nothing looked good on him this evening. Quatre took his wardrobe very seriously—as a businessman, he was obligated to regard his appearance with special deference–and this wouldn’t be the last time he stood in the middle of his walk-in closet, muttering to himself as he raked through hangars in nothing but his socks and trunks.

At last he had opted for an old stand-by: a buttery-soft chambray shirt and slim black trousers, only instead of the wingtips he’d wear boots, go for an edgy flair. And rolling up his shirt sleeves distressed his appearance a little, took him from geek to chic. Sort of. He had stopped caring by 17:48, when he shut the door on the disastrous state of his closet, checked his hair one last time in the foyer mirror ( _it’s fine, go, you’re going to be late_ ), and was out. He went down to the underground parking garage and got behind the wheel of his sporty little Mercedes coupe—it was just right, luxurious enough to play ball with the big boys but modest enough to fit his personality—and drove out to the L4-A071 (Kensington) Spaceport. And there he proceeded to wear a groove in the floor until 18:57, when Trowa’s shuttle finally came into sight.  
  
Quatre darted to the window and pressed his hands against the glass like a young child looking through a storefront window. His pulse shot up as he watched the shuttle approach, eyes straining uselessly to see faces in the portholes. If Trowa was on the starboard side, they might be able to see each other. The thought gave his heart a kick, and Quatre wondered, not for the first time, if there was any truth to the theories of rate-of-living and finite heartbeats. _If so, I’m probably screwed_ , he thought, and his reflection in the glass smiled at him grimly.

The world could end a week from today, but right now _Trowa was here_. Nothing else mattered.

 _Nothing else mattered_. Wasn’t that a song by that old band Duo liked, Metal-lacquer or something? It was a lovely song—6/8 time, translated very well to a symphonic composition—despite the thundering guitars and raw vocals. Duo had given Quatre the song, along with many other “classics” as he called them, on minidisc the last time they met up. Quatre had played it in his car for a few days and forgotten about it until now. He’d have to find it again and give it a listen, especially to that _Nothing Else_ song. How did it go?  
  
“ _So close, no matter how far_ ,” he sang under his breath, watching the shuttle slowly maneuver into the bay. “ _Couldn’t be much more from the heart. Forever trusting who we are, and_ . . .”

And nothing else matters. That was how it went.

The rest of the lyrics were a jumble of declaratives and independent clauses, and somewhere in there was something about seeking and finding trust, and “all these words I don’t just say”. Beautiful phrases. Yes, Quatre was definitely going to have to find that disc again. Maybe Trowa would like to hear it, too. Sharing music with each other was always . . . an intimate affair.  
  
Quatre watched the shuttle put down its landing gear. The heavy bay doors closed and locked behind it. A few moments later the artificial atmosphere was activated and the combination of nitrogen/oxygen gases hissed into the bay. The warning lights blinked from red to yellow. The G-accelerators kicked on and the shuttle settled onto its thick rubber tires as gravity was reintroduced. The lights turned green. All clear.  
  
Quatre unconsciously wrung his hands. Should he stay here and wait to see Trowa emerge from the shuttle, or catch him at the terminal entrance? Would it be better to just go sit down and wait until he came in? He’d look a lot less desperate ( _but I_ am _desperate_ , thought Quatre guiltily) if he were to be sitting down and reading a magazine and just happened to look up and see Trowa . . . but that might seem too indifferent. Trowa was _important_ to him, and he wanted that to be made perfectly clear when they met. Oh, damn it _damn it_ , this was the wardrobe dilemma all over again.

Before Quatre could make a decision, the decision was made for him. The shuttle door lifted open and passengers began to stump down the stairs in single-file. Behind a short, well-dressed woman six heads from the front of the line, Trowa came into view. He was wearing his leather jacket and carrying a small bag on one shoulder. He was the most wonderful thing Quatre had ever seen.

An explosion of joy, love, and every good thing in the universe started in Quatre’s heart and shot through every nerve in his body.

On the other side of the glass, Trowa suddenly gripped the handrail as if he’d stumbled. He raised his head and looked up at the large window that looked out over the docking bay. A small figure was staring at him. Despite the white glare on the glass that cut the person in two, Trowa knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that that was Quatre, waiting for him.

He raised his hand.

Quatre raised his.

Then Trowa, mindful of the bottleneck he was creating, hurried down the stairs. When he looked up again, Quatre was gone.

 _Okay, Winner_ , Quatre told himself, fidgeting in the general area of the terminal doors. _Rein in the excitement. Be cool. Don’t jump on him, don’t hug him (you know how he feels about displays of affection), but don’t be so cool that you alarm him. Just . . . relax. Shake his hand. Be happy. Trowa’s here._

He took a deep breath and let it whoosh out of him. _Just relax._

The doors bumped open and the passengers began to stream toward the luggage carousel farther down in the terminal. Some were greeted by friends and family in the waiting area. Others, the light travelers, crossed the lobby and took the elevators down to the spaceport entrance.

And there he was, Trowa Bloom, wearing a grayish-green Henley under his jacket, his long denim-clad legs terminating in a pair of Chelsea boots. He spotted Quatre and veered toward him, smiling faintly. He looked tired, the same kind of tired a fox must feel after it’s been running from a pack of ravening hounds for half a day.

Quatre felt his cheeks ignite and the nuclear-powered smile he was struggling to suppress broke through. “Trowa. It’s good to s—”

Trowa didn’t stop at his usual 18-inch distance. He kept coming, and Quatre heard the bag he was carrying clump to the floor before he was drawn into a mighty embrace. The smell of leather and shampoo and old nicotine and the spicy musk of either aftershave or antiperspirant filled Quatre’s nostrils, but it was dimly registered; all he could think about was Trowa, who was standing here and hugging him in front of the whole world.  
  
“I missed you,” he murmured into Quatre’s collar.

Quatre was suddenly blinking back tears. “I missed you too, Trowa,” he said a little too cheerfully. His arms were pinned to his sides, but he bent his elbows and patted Trowa’s jacket in his best attempt to reciprocate a gesture of mutual affection.

Trowa’s grip loosened and he pulled back to look at Quatre. The faint smile was on still his lips, but his eyes were deep with shadows. “You’re as beautiful as ever.”

Blood rushed to Quatre’s face. “So are you,” he blurted. His eyes widened in horror. “I mean—thank you.”

For a brief moment Trowa look surprised, as if the concept of being found attractive to normal people was totally new to him. His hands slid down Quatre’s arms and grasped his wrists. “I have a lot of things to tell you,” he said gently. “Things I should have told you a long time ago. Will you listen?”

Quatre’s heart began to thump wildly, hopefully. “Of course,” he said, sounding slightly strangled. “Uh, do you want to tell me now, or . . . ?”

“No, let’s wait till we get to your place. This is . . . it could take a while.”

* * *

It was just over a 40-minute drive back to Chelsea Gardens, and the first ten minutes of it were spent in heavy silence. Trowa sat with his arms folded across his chest, rubbing his lips together and staring out the window. Night had fallen and the city passed by in bright slashes of neon. Quatre kept both hands locked on the wheel and hoped that the spiny discomfort he felt growing in his stomach was just acid indigestion.  
  
While they waited at a red light, Quatre opened a cubby in the center console and pulled out a square zipper wallet. He nudged Trowa’s arm with it. “Could you do me a favor and find the disc that has ‘For Quatre’ written on it?”

“Sure.” Trowa accepted the wallet and began to flip through the minidiscs. They were tucked in clear plastic envelopes, four to a page. “You got a secret admirer?”  
  
Only Quatre would have been able to detect the smile in Trowa’s voice. “No,” he chuckled. “It’s from Duo. He put a bunch of old songs on it, says someone like me ought to know a little bit more about precolonial music than just Mozart and Mussorgsky.”

“What’s wrong with Mozart and Mussorgsky?”

“Nothing. But Duo insisted upon ‘expanding my musical knowledge’, as he put it.”

Trowa located the disc (yeah, that was Duo’s handwriting alright), and fed it into the slot in the dash. A few seconds later an electric guitar plucked out a slow riff that was presently joined by bass and drums.

“ _Talk to me softly, there’s something in your eyes_ ,” crooned Axl Rose. “ _Don’t hang your head in sorrow, and please don’t cry_ . . .”

“I’ve heard this before,” said Trowa. “Someone in our troupe has it on their PMD, I think. It’s an old song.”

“Oh? What do you think of it?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never heard the whole thing before.”

They sat and listened.

When Quatre looked over a couple minutes later, Trowa had stopped torturing his lips and was facing straight ahead, tapping his fingers absently on the armrest. Even though his eyes wore that thousand-yard glaze, his body seemed to have relaxed. His head unconsciously followed the beat, nodding slightly.

 _Good_ , thought Quatre. These were good signs.

The song played on, the vocals rising to the climax: “ _You gotta make it your own way, but you’ll be alright now, sugar. You’ll feel better tomorrow, come the morning light now, baby_ —”

“I hope so,” said Trowa quietly. Not so quietly that Quatre didn’t hear it.

He shifted gears and the Mercedes whispered down the dark expressway.

* * *

By the time they entered Quatre’s apartment, the clock stood at 20:08. Trowa, who had stayed here once when Cathy’s health issues had him doing a lot of inter-sphere travel, promptly took his bag to the guest room. Quatre drifted into the kitchen and went about preparing a couple of drinks, lost in his own thoughts. He took a can of Valenossi out of one of the cupboards and cracked it open. Though it was packaged to look like soda, it was actually a fruity, carbonated blend of vitamins and minerals—most importantly calcium—that helped settle the stomachs of recent space travelers, as well as restore some of the body’s nutrients that were lost in microgravity environments. It had been a staple in the pantries of colonists for over fifty years.

Quatre poured a glass for Trowa and fixed a lime-infused mineral water for himself. He pensively sipped his beverage and contemplated the tightening knot of uneasiness in his chest. It dampened the joy that Trowa’s presence should have brought him. Something was wrong. Like feeling the ominous rumble of tanks over the earth, or hearing the distant popping of automatic fire. Something else was here. Something big and black and hungry, lurking on the edges of his perception. A wolf or a lion. A predator that glared balefully behind the bars of its cage as it stalked back and forth. _I’m going to get out_ , it growled. _And when I do, I’m going to eat the heart of your beloved friend. I’ll do that first, so there’s nothing left for you. Then I’m going to spill your guts and eat them while you watch. I’ll destroy everything you love and_ —  
  
“You okay, Quat?”

Quatre jerked back to the present. Trowa was in the living room, gazing at him worriedly. He had taken off his jacket, and his neck rose smooth and tan from his shirt. It looked dangerously exposed.

Quatre swallowed. The gruesome promises still echoed in his mind. “I’m fine. Here,” he said, extending his hand. “Some Valenossi.”

Trowa came forward and took the glass from him. “Thanks.”

Quatre watched him drink, admiring the undulation of his Adam’s apple and the sinewy flex of his tendons. His throat looked so naked. Why did Trowa have to bare himself like this? He needed a scarf, a collar, something. It was so . . . it was too . . .

 _Defenseless_ , Quatre realized. His defenses were down. Not just physically—all the systems were wide open, _had_ been, all evening. Heart, mind, soul, everything. No armor, no shield, no sword. Nothing separating Trowa from that bloodthirsty _thing_ but his skin and his courage, and God knew neither the former nor the latter could save him from it.

“You brought something with you,” said Quatre suddenly. “Or somebody. Who is he? How does he know you? What did he do to you, Trowa?”

Trowa stood silent and stunned for several moments. Then he carefully set his glass on the counter. “So you can sense it.”  
  
“Only because you allowed me. We’re both open to each other. You can feel the connection, can’t you?”  
  
“Yeah,” said Trowa, “I feel it. It’s scary. And incredible.” His gaze settled on his glass. “Do you remember the first time it happened?”  
  
“Yes,” Quatre murmured. “Najran. Béla Bartók.”

“ _Song of the Mountain Horn_.” Trowa smiled. “I can still hear your violin.”

Quatre’s heart swelled with love. Fierce, indescribable. The feeling vanished as Trowa suddenly shut his eyes and reached out a hand to steady himself. Quatre cried out in alarm and darted forward to help.  
  
“It’s okay,” he said. “I’m alright. It’s just that I . . . I can _feel_ you, Quatre. Inside me. Right here.” He placed his hand at the base of his throat, thumb and forefinger lying against his clavicle. He exhaled heavily. “Just give me a sec. It was . . . really intense.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“No, Quat, don’t apologize. This is why I’m here, why I came to you this way. So you can see exactly . . . what I am.” He bit his lip and looked into the living room. His face was a picture of trepidation—but his eyes were determined. “Let’s sit down.”

Quatre went with him and together they sat down on the couch, knee to knee. Trowa took Quatre’s hands and clasped them gently in his own. All channels were open. He closed his eyes and took a breath, and started at the very beginning.

His voice carried on steadily, uninterrupted, for the better part of an hour. It was the most Quatre had ever heard him speak. Between the words, images floated like debris in the aftermath of a flood, some vague and blurry, others sharp and grotesque. An orphan’s gnawing fear of abandonment. _Who’s going to take care of me?_ _Why am I alone?_ The stinging blows and hard voices of those who rejected him. Names uglier than no name at all. Ugly. Runt. Stupid. The bottomless ache of loneliness and sorrow. _Toughen up or find another place to live, kid._ Smells of gunpowder, canvas, engine oil.

The river of bleak years flowed from Trowa’s mouth and was heard more strongly by Quatre’s heart than his ears. Several times a tear squeezed from his closed eyes and left a salty line down his cheek. His hands tightened around Trowa’s until his knuckles were white and bloodless. He wasn’t aware of anything but the blossom that was slowly opening to him, revealing the shy, fragrant pistil it had guarded for so long.  
  
And then the presence that Quatre had felt earlier reared up like an obsidian tidal wave. _I’m here_ , it said. _Little pig, little pig, let me in._  
  
Trowa gave it a name, described what it had done to him, and let go of the shame, the guilt, the misplaced feelings of desire and pleasure that had been thrust into him. It poured out and swirled into Quatre’s heart like poison down a drain, sickening him with its powerful ugliness.

You don’t want him, it purred. Really. Just look at him. See how weak he is (big walls and tiny balls, how disappointing, you thought there was more to him than this), definitely an inferiority complex. You really want to deal with his brokenness for the rest of your life? He’s damaged goods, darling. Don’t stain your virginal whiteness (think of your image, what would your father say?) with his bloody muddy filth.

Quatre clenched his teeth and fought back. Trowa continued to speak in measured breaths, and the shadow grew bigger, stronger.

How precious you are, defending him in your naiveté. You forget: he’s denied you all this time, lied by omission, kept you waiting for five years just so he could finally tell you about the man who gave it to him and made him _want it_ , the man he protected for as long as he’s known you. Who’s more important, I wonder? He took his name, after all. He must have loved him. There’s nothing left for you, I’m afraid. BARTON took it all, got to him first. How ironic: the loser won and the Winner is a loser. Listen, dear boy, he’d understand if you rejected him. He’s been rejected all his life, nothing new, he’s come to expect—

I’m not rejecting him, said Quatre firmly. I love him. I need him and he needs me. Go away and leave him—leave us—alone.

You’re as stupid as he is frail. Maybe you deserve each other. Very well. You want him? Go ahead and have him. Ruin yourself on his worthlessness. Years from now you’ll see what a mistake it was.

No, said Quatre, and he grew tall and heavy, skin turning white-gold-gray as he became Sandrock. Today. Right now.

Oh God Quatre be careful, came Trowa’s small voice. It’s dangerous.

I know. But so am I.

A gundanium foot took a thunderous step forward. The thing recoiled. Then it turned and ran.

The verniers blazed and Quatre pursued. They barreled through time, 194, 195, 196, righteous anger burning in the pith of Quatre’s heart and throwing arrows of light into the shade’s fleeing form. Pieces of darkness broke off and were crushed, hissing and squealing, under Sandrock’s massive feet.  
  
197\. 198. Closing the distance. The shotels glowed red, slicing and slashing mercilessly. Each stroke carried an oath: I forgive him, I love him, he is worth it. They were salt poured into a gaping wound. The thing screamed in desperate rage. Black ribbons coiled to the ground like eviscerated bowels. Its strength was failing. So was Quatre’s.  
  
199\. 200.

I need your help, Trowa. Finish it. We have to do it together.

. . . Affirmative.

Outside, the living room was quiet. They sat on the couch and gripped each other’s hands, breath coming fast and heavy, hearts beating in syncopation. Inside, a ferocious firestorm raged on, raining missiles and bullets and blades. The shadow seethed, trapped between Heavyarms and Sandrock, and continued to scrabble and snap even as they locked on and emptied their retribution into its body.  
  
After a few short, violent minutes, it was dead.

Quatre’s breathing returned to normal and he opened his eyes. Trowa’s pupils moved rapidly behind his lids. His brow was furrowed and his teeth were bared in a grimace. He was still fighting . . . no. He was beating a corpse. Heavyarms had disappeared and now he was just a 15-year-old boy in blue coveralls, screaming and sobbing as he bludgeoned the stain in the earth where the shadow had lain.

Quatre reached out and touched his cheek. “Trowa. It’s over. Come back.”

His face relaxed. There was a long pause.

“I know,” said Quatre gently. “But there are six _new_ years waiting for you. For us. Open your eyes, Trowa.”

And Trowa did. His eyes glowed with a brightness, a newness, that Quatre had never seen.

“Quatre,” he started, and they met halfway, throwing their arms around one another in a bruising hug. “Thank you, Quatre,” he whispered.

“Thank yourself. You were the brave one, not me.”

Trowa pulled back and stared, astounded.  
  
“I’m not the first person who’s said that, am I?” asked Quatre, smiling meekly.

Trowa shook his head.

“It’s true, you know. You _are_ brave.”

“. . . You’re beautiful.”

Quatre blushed and began to turn his head, but Trowa’s fingers stopped him, and brought his eyes back around. Warm turquoise met blazing emerald.  
  
“And strong,” Trowa continued, “and kind. And still the most amazing person I know. I love you, Quatre.”

The world became a hot wet blur, and Quatre blinked it clear again. “Trowa,” he stammered, and utterly forgot what he was going to say when Trowa’s forehead touched his own.

“Feel me, Quatre,” he whispered. “Feel how much I love you . . . I want you to know.”

Quatre closed his eyes, opened his heart, and felt.


	3. Adagio

Milky rays of an artificial sunrise filtered down through the skylights in the living room, illuminating two figures asleep on the sofa.

The ormolu mantle clock chimed eight times, and Quatre came awake with a deep breath. His eyes opened to the ceiling and lingered there awhile, studying the way the pale yellow light cut shards through the waning shadows. He felt something hard and heavy tucked against his side and knew it was Trowa’s legs; he was stretched out on his side on the opposite end of the sofa, one knee wedged against Quatre’s thigh. Quatre couldn’t see him, but he could hear the steady whisper of his exhalations. What a wonderful way to wake up, he thought. Hearing your loved one live and breathe. It was the sound of absolute peace.

There was a song for this moment, wasn’t there? Of course. Quatre invited it in.

_Dawn is a feeling_ , sang Justin Hayward, _a beautiful ceiling_ . . .

Quatre sighed contentedly, and the turntable in his head rolled the vinyl round and round.

_You’re here today, no future fears. This day will last a thousand years . . . if you want it to._

“What song is that?” Trowa mumbled, giving Quatre a start.

The record scratched and went still.

“It’s by The Moody Blues,” he said. “I think the name is _Dawn_.”

“Hm. Keep playing. I like it.”

Quatre, who lived in concert with the abstract and was accustomed to transcendental phenomena, was nevertheless astounded by the clarity and strength of their connection. He swallowed nervously and imagined the turntable again (he made it into a Victrola this time, with a big brassy flower of a horn), and placed the needle carefully back at the beginning of the record. He took his hands off and let it play.

Trowa’s breathing resumed its even pace.

Amazing. Quatre wondered if this—anomaly? Experience?—was voluntary or simply a coincidence, if the music would remain with Trowa if he were to leave the room. There was one way to find out—Quatre needed to pee. GOTTA BLEED THE ONE-EYED SNAKE, Duo bawled, and Quatre clapped his hand over his mouth and snorted. _Not now, Duo_ , he laughed, stuffing the humorous memory back into its box and closing the lid.

He eased himself off the couch and stepped over his discarded boots, padding softly across the polished wood floor. He had no idea how noisy it was inside his head until it was open to others. He’d have to do some tidying up, make sure it was fit for guests.

He entered the little lavatory just off the foyer, contemplating how the human mind was a lot like a house. He wondered what sort of a house his mind was, if there were porches and patios and other nice places to sit outside and converse over a cup of tea. His would have to be quite large, with several storeys and lots of rooms. The music room would probably be the biggest of all, a kind of theater. Maybe it had started out as a parlor or den when he was younger, then a few walls had to be knocked out over the years to accommodate everything. It probably occupied an entire floor by this point in his life, and with the new music Duo was introducing him to, a future expansion was surely imminent. Hm. Perhaps he should consider a separate wing just for music, and divide the rooms into classical, contemporary, and modern. Keep things organized. It was an idea. Architecture had always fascinated Quatre.

He finished up in the bathroom and splashed a little warm water on his face, blotting away the last traces of drowsiness with a towel. Now that one need had been attended to, he could focus on the next: breakfast.

He made his way to the kitchen and quietly inspected his provisions: three bananas, half a loaf of flax bread, a couple of elderly crumpets (they’d be fine toasted), a sticky jar of marmalade in the fridge, a half-dozen eggs (omelets? Drat, he was out of cheese), milk but no cereal, yogurt, some aging plums . . . well, there was plenty here. He’d be able to cobble something together. He didn’t feel like going out anyway, especially since

_Trowa was here._

A dreamy smile crept to Quatre’s face. And he was _all here_ this time; not just bodily, but emotionally. One thing was certain—he was definitely _not_ going to be taking business calls today, or answering emails, or anything else that would distract him from spending time with Trowa. This was _their_ day.

At half past eight, the smell of freshly-brewed coffee and the clinking of silverware slowly brought Trowa out of his slumber and into an upright position. He folded his arms on the back of the sofa and watched Quatre toggle back and forth between a 3-ring cookbook and various kitchen cabinets, unaware he was being watched. It was a cheerful domestic scene and it fit Quatre well, even if he didn’t appear very sure of himself and kept referring back to the cookbook. No one would have guessed this sunny, cherub-faced young man was a mighty corporate executive sitting on the throne of a company with a 9-digit net worth.

Trowa rested his chin on his forearm, gazing fondly. Quatre really could do anything he put his mind to. He was a pilot, musician, artist, activist, philanthropist, architect, ambassador, and now it seemed he was going to add “culinarian” to the list. Trowa didn’t ask him if he needed help. With enough time, Quatre would master that, too. He did ask one thing, however:

“What did you see in me?”

Quatre looked up from the cookbook with surprise, delight, and confusion passing in rapid succession across his face. “What I, wh—come again?”

“What did you see in me?” Trowa repeated. “The day we met. Why did . . . why me?”

Quatre studied Trowa’s tense, worried expression, taking note of the self-conscious way he averted his eyes. He leaned heavily on the counter, coffee and cookbook forgotten.

“Before I ever saw you, I was aware of you, Trowa,” he said delicately. “From the moment our Gundams locked in combat, I knew you weren’t my enemy. Call it a sixth sense or ESP or whatever you like, but I felt in my heart that fighting you was wrong, and I knew that you didn’t really want to hurt me.”

“Quatre, I had just destroyed eighteen mobile suits and their pilots. In 190 I obliterated my own platoon—men I’d known for years—when they sided with the Alliance. I would have killed you without a second thought.”

“If you’d had any ammunition left . . . and if I had decided to let you win that day.” Quatre grinned archly.

“As I recall, that didn’t stop me from trying.”

“No, but that’s because you’re an excellent soldier. You were simply following orders. I knew that once you saw me in person, you would stop fighting.”

“And how in the world did you know that?”

“Because I wasn’t a threat to you,” said Quatre solemnly. “And because I knew deep down, where you kept your feelings so carefully guarded, you hated killing as much as I did.”

Trowa said nothing.

“I’m a sensitive guy, Trowa, but I’m not suicidal. I wouldn’t have surrendered to you if I wasn’t one hundred percent certain of your intentions. But I was. It came to me as strongly and clearly as . . . as everything that happened last night. I knew you were sensitive, clever, full of doubt and deep feelings. I found you thrilling and mysterious.” He looked down at the counter, his cheeks coloring. “And handsome. I don’t think you realize how good-looking you are, Trowa, but . . . you are. Those beautiful green eyes of yours . . . You have no idea how many dreams you’ve spawned over the years.”

“You dreamt about me?” said Trowa, feeling his face warm. As if the odes to his appearance weren’t enough of a shock, the thought of being the object of someone’s attraction, much less the figurehead of their dreams, sounded as unbelievable to him as the existence of fairies and unicorns.

“Of course,” said Quatre emphatically. “You’re the whole package! Talented, graceful, smart, and you look sexy in uniform. Certainly dream material, if you ask me.”

His coy grin wilted at Trowa’s quietness. At first he was afraid he had said something out of line, but then he examined his insight and came to a sad realization: Trowa had seldom been on the receiving end of kind, appreciative words and compliments—at least from people who weren’t trying to manipulate him for sexual favors. His self-esteem was a barren, unstable little hill of sand that would require many years of careful cultivation to become something sturdy and healthy.

_Well. Alright then_ , decided Quatre. _If that’s what it takes, I’ll do it. No sacrifice is too great for my Trowa._

He walked out of the kitchen and crouched down at the sofa, staring at Trowa eye to eye. “I guess what I’m trying to say is,” he murmured, “you have value, Trowa. In fact, you’re priceless to me. You are a treasure, and worthy of love.”

“Am I worthy of _your_ love?”

After a second’s hesitation, Quatre leaned forward and met Trowa’s lips—a warm, soft kiss of reassurance, fleshy and thick and sweet like honey. Trowa closed his eyes and pursed his lips into Quatre’s, savoring the contact, before Quatre pulled away with a quiet smack.

“What do _you_ think?”

Trowa’s beautiful green eyes darkened, and he cupped the back of Quatre’s head and pulled him into another kiss, this one bold and urgent. They rose together, breath coming short and fast as they completed one kiss and started another, pressing hard and deep, noses and lips squashing together clumsily. Then Trowa locked his arms around Quatre’s waist and hauled him over the back of the sofa. Quatre let out a delighted shriek and held on tightly as he went over, landing on his side. He laughed at himself and his awkward position, pants twisted around his legs and shirt riding up his back, and Trowa laughed with him, similarly disheveled.

Their smiles touched again and Quatre wiggled into a more comfortable position, stretching himself out against him. He slipped his free hand beneath the back of Trowa’s shirt, massaging the firm, smooth planes of muscle, pulling him closer. Oh yes, he could feel him now, that hard denim bulge digging into his thigh. If he could just scoot down another couple of inches, then they would—

Quatre moaned into Trowa’s mouth when they aligned, their erections straining dully against one another through the layers of cloth.

Trowa slid his arm over Quatre’s hip, clutching one fleshy buttock and squeezing as he began to rhythmically grind himself against the smaller body. He broke away from Quatre’s mouth and moved to the delicate skin of his throat, sucking and biting gently.

Quatre arched his neck in encouragement, a breathy moan escaping his lips. Oh _God_ yes this felt wonderful, incredible. Finally, years of wishing and fantasizing were coming true. How deliciously satisfying it felt to be wanted, to be held, to have the attention he so craved. Why, it was just like—

Violet eyes and a long braid sliced through his thoughts, and suddenly he was back on that couch in L1, pinned beneath Duo Maxwell—heavy, strong Duo, techy and loveable and dangerous Duo, who always carried a gun and cussed and drank and loved with equal intensity, who smelled like shampoo and metal, who so tenderly kissed Quatre’s neck and spoke his name . . .

Trowa went still. He pulled back and stared, lips plump and face flushed, a bewildered shadow growing in his eyes.

“ _Duo_?” he demanded. “You and Duo were . . . ?”

Horror poured into Quatre’s heart like an avalanche, snuffing out the fire that had been kindled there. “It’s not what you think, Trowa. Duo and I, we, it wasn’t—”

But Trowa was shaking his head and pulling himself upright, raking a hand through his hair. “How could. When did this happen? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because there was nothing to tell!” Quatre cried, crawling into a sitting position. If he could have seen himself at this moment, he would have laughed; his hair was in complete disarray, clothes tangled around his body, his eyes like a pair of goose eggs. “Nothing happened between us, Trowa.”

“Then what did I just see? A fantasy?” The heartbreak on Trowa’s face was so powerful that it burned an impression into Quatre’s mind he would carry for the rest of his life. “You were on a couch with him, _underneath_ him. He was kissing you.”

“I know. I know how it looks, but.” Quatre closed his eyes and swallowed the lump in his throat. _Don’t cry. If you start crying, you won’t be able to talk and if you can’t talk you can’t explain yourself_ —

“We met up at the Preventers summit early last month,” he blurted. “We had lunch together and went to his apartment afterward and started talking about relationships. He told me about his falling out with Heero and I told him about _my_ issues, and we were both so miserable and lonely—”

“That you fell into each other’s arms?”

“Yes,” Quatre snapped, feeling inexplicably angry. “We were _grieving_ , Trowa. Friends confide in each other when they’re grieving over a common problem.”

“There’s a big difference between confiding and . . . and . . .” Trowa gave up, sighed. “So what was your ‘common problem’?”

“Unrequited love.” Quatre tried not to take too much satisfaction in the startled look that crossed Trowa’s face. “Duo is still hopelessly in love with Heero, even after all they’ve been through, and I was in love with someone who never did anything to reciprocate. We were a shambles. We were so starved for affection that we let it get the best of us for a few moments. Thankfully we both regained our senses before we could do anything we’d really regret.”

He paused to regain control of his breathing. “Trowa, Duo may be my best friend, but _you_ are the one I love. The only one I want. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about this earlier. I suppose I thought that it didn’t matter.”

To Quatre’s astonishment, a half- smile came to Trowa’s lips. “Hm. In the grand scheme of things, I guess it doesn’t,” he said. “A few weeks ago, Heero came to see me and Cathy at the circus.”

An expression of hilarious dread washed over Quatre’s face. Trowa took one look at it and laughed out loud.

“Relax, Quatre. It wasn’t a conjugal visit or anything,” he said gently. “He just had some questions he wanted to ask me. Totally innocent.”

“Oh.” Quatre slumped back, relieved beyond words. “Thank God. I was always afraid you two might . . .”

“Seriously?”

“Well. You _are_ a lot alike. And you and Wufei were always quite chummy, going on about motorcycles and engines and such.” A guilty shrug. “You know how it is when you’re in love with someone; you see everyone else as a threat.”

“I never would have guessed you were the jealous type, Quatre.”

“I never would have guessed we’d be sitting together and discussing our fears of losing each other to our own friends.”

“Doesn’t say much about our friends, does it?”

“Doesn’t say much about us, either.”

A few humbling moments of silence passed. Then Trowa turned to Quatre and extended his arm. Quatre gladly accepted the invitation, crawling over and nestling against his side like a chick under its parent’s wing. Trowa put his arm around his shoulders and hugged him close.

“I love you, Quatre,” he murmured, planting a kiss onto his blond head. “You’re the only one I’ve ever wanted.”

“I love you too, Trowa. I hate it when we . . . experience turbulence.”

“Me too.”

They sat on the sofa and stared out the windows on the other side of the living room, which offered a lovely view of the verdant, well-kept gardens that were the apartments’ namesake. Quatre reached up and placed his hand on Trowa’s chest, feeling his heart thump against his palm.

“Let’s promise to always be honest with each other,” he said softly. “As long as we trust one another, we can talk about anything. I want to know I can come to you with my doubts and fears and find comfort, and I want you to feel the same about me. Let’s be like that, Trowa. Let’s be”—he searched for the word—“unconditional.”

Trowa idly fingered a few strands of Quatre’s hair. “There’s an institution for that, you know.”

A sharp intake of breath, and Quatre froze.

“Maybe someday we’ll both wind up there. Permanent cell mates.”

“Till sanity do us part?”

“Or death. Whichever comes first.”

Quatre’s hand left Trowa’s heart and slipped around his waist. “I’ll have to talk to my tailor first. I hear fitting straitjackets is a tricky business.”

“No hurry. We have plenty of time to lose our minds.”

“Yeah. It is a real _commitment_ , after all.”

Trowa snorted and began to chuckle.

Quatre gave him a squeeze.

_You’re here today, no future fears. This day will last a thousand years . . . if you want it to._

* * *

It was close to 10:00 by the time they finally hauled themselves off the sofa and ate a brunch of scrambled eggs, toast, and fruit. Trowa helped with the dishes and then retreated for a shower, allowing Quatre a few minutes to sit down at the kitchen table and sketch out a plan for the day. He had to pick up a few things from the market (his success with the scrambled eggs had made him adventurous, so maybe they would stay in for dinner this evening), and mused about other things they could do together. There were plenty of parks and galleries on Kensington Colony, but he was afraid of boring Trowa with modern art, and if you’ve seen one fountain, you’ve seen them all. He might be interested in the botanical gardens, though; they had several nice aviaries with tame parrots and birds of prey, and he knew Trowa was fond of animals. He jotted that down as an idea.

At quarter after, Trowa reappeared, toweling his spiky wet hair and looking stunning in a simple t-shirt and jeans. Quatre studied his long legs and thickly-muscled shoulders with equal parts admiration and envy; how he had managed to avoid being snatched up by a modeling agency was incomprehensible. The man had the body of a Greek god.

Quatre meekly considered getting back on with his aikido lessons, maybe start doing a few laps in the pool every morning. He was getting a bit soft around the middle, and his arms hadn’t had done much heavy lifting since his war days. He hoped Trowa wouldn’t mind his . . . doughiness.

Draping the towel around his neck, Trowa approached the kitchen table and glanced at the pad of paper. “Grocery list?”

“Among other things,” Quatre sighed, twiddling the pen between his fingers. “I’m trying to come up with an itinerary so we don’t spend the entire day sitting on the couch, bored to death.”

“Some exciting things have happened on that couch in the last few hours. Maybe staying here isn’t such a bad idea.”

Quatre bit back his smile and blushed. “Well, you know what I mean.”

Trowa reached down and gave his shoulder an amiable squeeze. “Hey, I told Cathy I’d call her and check in, let her know how we’re doing. I’ve got my satellite phone with me, if that’s alright.”

“Sure, go ahead,” said Quatre, sliding his chair back. “That’ll give me time to change clothes.”

“Okay. I won’t be long.”

True to his word, Trowa spent less than ten minutes on the phone with Cathy (she had an appointment to keep and couldn’t talk long, plus the signal was irritatingly weak) before she wished him the best and they both said their goodbyes. He shut his phone and tucked it into his pocket, then went to locate Quatre.

He wasn’t in the kitchen, the living room, or the foyer. He was, in fact, grumbling as he rifled through his wardrobe and threw rejected shirts, pants, and vests onto his bed. A reprise of last night.

Trowa heard the muffled thumps and clatters coming from Quatre’s room, and rapped softly on the open door. Quatre apparently didn’t hear him; the muttering continued uninterrupted from the depths of the closet. Trowa was turning to leave when a fluffy, yellow-orange object  on the bed caught his eye. He walked over and picked it up, smiling with recognition.

It was the lion plushie from the circus last year. The same one in the photograph of him and Quatre. It was a cheap little thing, coarse polyester fur and plastic eyes, more like a bear with a beard than a feline. It seemed out of place in this luxurious room with its mahogany furniture and crisp linens, gilt mirrors and plush Persian rugs. Trowa felt a strange sense of kinship with the toy he held. They were both unrefined boors in a rich, exotic land—but nevertheless adored by its ruler.

“Oh!”

Trowa raised his head to see a skin-colored blur dash back into the closet. Moments later Quatre peeked around the edge of the doorframe, his face bright pink.

“I didn’t hear you come in,” he stammered. “You surprised me.”

“Uh, sorry,” said Trowa awkwardly, placing the lion back on the pillows. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”

“I see you met Lionel.”

Trowa quirked an eyebrow and pointed to the toy.

“Yeah. I named him after Lionel Messi. You know who he was, don’t you?”

“I think so. Argentine football legend, right?”

“The same.”

Trowa tapped his lips pensively. “That’s a strangely appropriate name for a lion toy won at a Buenos Aires circus.”

“I know. It was too good to pass up,” Quatre giggled, the tip of one bare shoulder visible around the doorway. Trowa tried not to let his eyes linger on it for too long.

“Well,” he said, clearing his throat and moving toward the door, “I’ll let you get dressed now. I’ll be in the—”

“Wait, can I ask you something first? I’m having a bit of a problem and maybe you can help.”

“Sure.”

“Which do you think would look better on me: gray or peach?”

Trowa stuck his hands in his pockets and regarded his boots with a smirk. “You’re asking the guy who wears sequins and primary colors for a living. Sure you want my advice?”

“Absolutely.”

“The gray.”

“ _Thank_ you,” Quatre huffed. “I was leaning toward gray myself, but I wasn’t sure. Okay, give me five minutes and I’ll be ready.”

Four minutes and thirty-eight seconds later Quatre met Trowa in the living room, rolling up the sleeves of his light gray shirt and making sure the buttons lined up with the front of his navy-colored chinos. “Okay,” he said with a breathless grin. “Let’s go!”

“Aren’t you forgetting something?”

A blank expression.

Trowa held up the list.

Quatre tried to hide his face behind one hand. “Crap, I completely forgot. Where is my brain today?”

“A few floors down, visiting your heart.” Trowa smiled warmly, pocketed the list, and grasped Quatre’s hand. “Don’t worry about it. Come on. I’ve been looking forward to this.”

* * *

It felt like a holiday, even though it was just an ordinary Saturday. Quatre parked the car in the tranquil district of Chester Park and they continued on foot beneath the shady elms and birches, taking their time. They made an unusual pair—one fair and buoyant, the other dark and furtive, separated in height by several inches and in age by two years, though Trowa had only recently learned of the latter. He hadn’t been surprised by it, nor was Quatre when he told him; it was only a number after all, and it didn’t mitigate the severity of what had happened in 194. Even if Trowa Barton were still alive and subject to the law, his victim had been sixteen—the age of consent in most of the colonies—and too much time had passed for the legal system to do anything about it, even if it weren’t a case of total hearsay. But Barton was not alive, his victim was finally healing, and there was nothing else to do but go forward.

“I feel better already,” Trowa said, gazing up through the still-green leaves. As if a weight had been lifted from his soul, he explained, and now his past was of no more substance than a shadow, a harmless image cast by a figure standing in the future’s light. It would always be there, of course, clinging to his heels and following him through the remainder of his years. But it no longer had the power to injure him, and the blood and tears that fed it would be shed no more.

He took Quatre’s warm little hand as he said this, threading their fingers together. He didn’t let go.

They floated through the boroughs of Kensington like homeless but contented spirits, down the winding lanes of Holland Hill, past the shops and bistros of High Street, the world moving around them in vague, superficial mirages. They spoke easily, comfortable in each other’s company as they’d never been before. The tension that had haunted their conversations had disintegrated; there were no taboos, no eggshells or glass fragments to mind anymore. They were unlimited, and their words reached a depth and meaning previously unattainable to them.

They visited the Knightsbridge Botanical Gardens, and for a little while diverted their attention to birds, flowering shrubs, and beautifully cultured landscaping. There was a hedge maze and a topiary, a sprawling, heavenly-smelling rose garden with trellises and granite reproductions of classical Greek statues, and a glass-walled conservatory filled with nothing but orchids. The “back garden” aviary was the most cheerful place, however; a lovely two-acre park filled with trees and bright, musical birdsong. It was as close to Earth as some people would ever get.

They bought little bags of bird feed at a kiosk and stood together on a footbridge that overlooked a clear, shallow pool. A variety of birds was clustered around it, bathing and drinking and preening. They tossed seed to them, watching them peck and chirp merrily.

Trowa went into a little more detail regarding the nature of Heero’s visit the previous month, and Quatre listened with interest as he explained Heero’s mission to uncover the identities of his parents, both of whom he suspected to be deceased operatives associated with the Alliance. He also mentioned the current state of affairs between Heero and Duo, and together he and Quatre were able to paint a larger picture of their strained relationship with one another.

“It’s sad, in a way,” said Trowa. “Heero hasn’t forgiven himself for the way he treated Duo. He said he was going to apologize, try to set things right eventually. I wonder what will become of them.”

“It’s hard to say,” Quatre answered, watching a group of finches bob along the ground, hunting for beads of millet. “Duo still has a lot of anger and sadness in his heart—but there’s a lot of love there, too. It may be difficult for them, trying to reconcile, but I hope they can at least come to an understanding.”

“Understanding one another is easy. Finding peace isn’t.”

Quatre opened his mouth to concur, but the words died in his throat when he glanced over at Trowa, standing beside him, with a wild finch perched on his fingers. It was enjoying a gentle head scratch, its feathers fluffed with pleasure, little black button eyes blinking and closing. Totally at ease. Completely unafraid.

For reasons he couldn’t explain, Quatre’s eyes began to fill with tears.

_Oh, Trowa. We are more alike than I thought. Two tender-hearted fools tuned to a frequency no one else can hear, awake and aware. We listen to the quiet voices lost in the cacophony of the universe, never asking why or how. I don’t know which is more remarkable—these strange gifts of ours, or the fact that we, two little motes floating in a sea of billions, managed to find each other. Will our ears continue to strengthen, I wonder? Or have they already served their purpose in bringing us together?_

A second finch joined its mate in Trowa’s hand, nibbling at the sunflower seeds in his palm.

Trowa turned to Quatre with a hopeful smile. “We’ll just have to wait and see,” he said.


	4. Nocturne

They arrived back at the apartment around 15:30, laden with bags from the little co-op in Chelsea proper. As soon as he set his armful on the countertop, Quatre went to the cupboard and removed two small glasses.

“Would you like an aperitif?” he asked. “I’ve got some excellent sherries to choose from.”

Trowa made an awkward expression. “No, thanks. I, um. Don’t drink.”

Now it was Quatre’s turn to look awkward. “Oh. Well, I have mineral water instead, or if you’d prefer—”

“No, it’s okay, you can drink if you want. I just . . . had some bad experiences with alcohol.”

It came to Quatre like the fuzzy memory of an old dream: the clink of bottlenecks in shot glasses, the smell of hard liquor. A heavy, leering voice offering more. Burning liquid in his throat, disorientation. Broken inhibition. Still don’t remember much about that night. Whisky, vodka, a shot or two of tequila. _I think you’re ready for me._

Quatre swallowed his nausea. “Oh God, Trowa, I’m so sorry. How thoughtless of me.”

“You’re not thoughtless.” He came forward and placed reassuring hands on Quatre’s arms, looking into his eyes kindly. “It’s alright. _I’m_ alright. Maybe not completely, but I’m getting there. And you’re helping me. Thank you for understanding.”

“Understanding is easy,” Quatre muttered. “Finding peace isn’t.”

“No, but I think we’re making a good start. Don’t you?”

“I hope so.”

“You know,” said Trowa, “I’ve always hated that phrase. But for some reason it doesn’t bother me anymore.” He smiled. “Speaking of hope, what exactly is that cock vein thing you said you’re making for dinner?”

Quatre turned bright pink, then promptly exploded with laughter.

* * *

The correct term was _coq au vin_ , a wine-braised chicken dish, and Quatre did quite well on it. “It only sounds intimidating because it’s French,” he explained, sipping his burgundy. “This recipe was simplified a little, but I’ll take easy over authentic for now. I wonder what I should try next? Something Italian, perhaps.”

Apparently Quatre had found a new hobby. Trowa, whose interest in food only went so far as edibility and whether or not it filled the hollow spot, listened with interest but little comprehension. He didn’t understand what Quatre found so exciting about deglazing, but was nevertheless happy for his enthusiasm. At least it took care of the question of what to get him for Christmas this year.

Afterward, as they cleared the dishes from the table, Trowa leaned down and lightly kissed Quatre’s temple. “Thank you. That was a lovely meal,” he said. “I’ll finish cleaning up if you want to get your shower. I don’t mind.”

Quatre surveyed the kitchen. Cutting boards, carrot peels, shallot skins, measuring cups, spoons, knives, cooking utensils, mixing bowls, dirty pots, blotches of gravy crustifying on the counter top—to call it a disaster would be a compliment. “Are you sure? You might not finish until midnight.”

“Believe me,” said Trowa, “this isn’t bad. When Cathy makes her homemade _pogacsa_ , _that’s_ bad.”

“Well, if you insist,” Quatre said reluctantly. “Thanks, Trowa.”

“No problem. I’ll be finished before you get out.”

Somehow Quatre seriously doubted that, but Trowa might be able to pull it off. He had been full of surprises lately; smiling often, talking more, overcoming his usual reservations. Like the incident on the sofa that morning. Remembering the heat of his mouth, his hardness, the speed at which they had gone from kissing to groping, sent a warm shiver through Quatre’s body. Would something like that happen again, perhaps tonight? Would they . . _._ go _all the way_?

Standing half-undressed in his closet, Quatre felt a very distinct, pleasurable throb in his briefs and decided now was not the time to be thinking about sex. Was it too soon? Probably. Surely neither of them was ready, Trowa least of all.

 _He certainly has no qualms about heavy petting_ , thought Quatre. But grinding on the sofa like a couple of teenagers was one thing; making love was quite another. Besides, one bad experience with alcohol had put Trowa off the stuff permanently—maybe he felt the same way about sex.

Dear God, Quatre hoped not. A celibate relationship sounded like the sort of tragic irony found only in operas and Shakespearean plays. He loved Trowa with a fiery passion, and to be denied the consummate expression of that love, especially one that burned with such intensity . . . it would kill him. Hell’s bells, how was he ever going to—

“Stop it, stop it,” he muttered, yanking off the rest of his clothes. _You’re getting ahead of yourself, Winner. Remember what you talked about this morning? That’s right,_ communication _. So just communicate with him. Open up to him and explore his fee—oh shit, what if he finds out I’m a virgin? It might bring back memories of his own First Time and he might never want to touch me again. I won’t tell him, then. But how can I hide that from him? What if he asks point-blank? I can’t lie—I_ won’t _lie to him. Oh for heaven’s sakes—_

He left a snarl of frustration in his closet and stormed into the bathroom. He wrenched the faucet on and jumped in before the hot water had a chance to make it through the pipes. Those first freezing seconds wilted what remained of his erection, and cooled his anger to a lukewarm level of discontent. It was a miserable way to end an otherwise glorious day, and Quatre suddenly hated himself and his ridiculous, overthinking brain. It had already gotten him into trouble once today. Now it seemed bound to have an encore.

What he needed to do was shut it up. Of course. As soon as he got out of the shower, he was going to march straight into the kitchen and pour himself a nightcap—in a _Bordeaux_ glass, thank you very much—and drown out these obsessively morbid thoughts. It probably wasn’t a healthy habit to get into, but neither was worrying oneself into a furor. A little self-medication would be alright. As long as he kept one foot firmly planted in reality.

A short time later Quatre, with his hair still hanging over his forehead in wavy, half-dry tendrils, pulled on his terrycloth bathrobe, stepped into his slippers, and trudged out to the kitchen.

The overhead lights were off, the only source of illumination coming from the little light over the range. The granite countertops shined, empty and neat. Freshly-washed pots and pans were stacked in the drainboard and the dishwasher was humming quietly. Even the floor looked clean, and Quatre was positive he had spilled something sticky in front of the fridge. If it weren’t for the lingering scent of chicken, no one would ever have guessed that dinner had been prepared here a couple hours earlier.

 _Oh, Trowa_ , he sighed. _You’re too good to be true._

Usually a gesture this thoughtful  would have left Quatre a whimsical, dreamy puddle, but right now it only increased his melancholy. He bent down at the little refrigerated wine cabinet and grabbed a bottle of Viennese Riesling.

Too good to be true. Oh yes, wouldn’t that just beat all, he thought wretchedly, opening the bottle. The perfect man, helpful and sensitive and gorgeous and kind to animals—unable to overcome the shadows of his past, doomed to a chaste, sexless existence. Quatre filled his glass until it was nearly brimming. He sucked a few mouthfuls off the top, poured a little bit more, and finally replaced the cork.

Come to think of it, where _was_ Trowa? Probably in his room, changing out of his day clothes and looking like a Calvin Klein advert, monochrome palette and everything. Quatre stepped out of the kitchen and peered down the hall. A sliver of light stood on the wall opposite Trowa’s door. In his room, then. Good. This was the perfect time to clear the air and face the inevitable, disappointing truth. The sooner the better.

Clutching the stem of his glass, Quatre tiptoed to the guest room and peeked inside. At first it appeared empty, the only evidence of its occupant being the puff of steady breathing. Quatre angled his head and finally spotted Trowa. He was on the floor, doing pushups. Shirtless. The straps of muscles bulging thickly on his arms, his back. Down, exhale. Up, inhale. Veins standing out on his forearms. The smooth flex of tendons and ligaments. He made it look effortless. It probably was for someone like Trowa, employed in a physically demanding line of work. He had to stay in shape. And he was. Very good shape. Incredibly—

 _Screw it, I’ll wait_ , Quatre thought bitterly, turning on his heel and scurrying back to his room.

He shut the door behind himself and took another gulp from his glass. He hadn’t felt this miserable in years. Since 195, at least. Yes, the year he met Trowa and fell irresistibly, hopelessly in love with him, spurring five years of pining and heartache. The same awful year in which he watched his father die, became drunk on grief and rage, and blew his beloved Trowa out of the sky, seemingly to his death. That had been even worse than pining—not being sure if he was really dead, despite the quiet, optimistic voice in his heart. At least if Trowa were alive there was some hope of him returning Quatre’s love one day; but dead people don’t return anything. And then to find Trowa alive and well but suffering from post-traumatic amnesia, unable to even remember who Quatre was . . . Yeah, 195 had been a pretty shitty year. Come to think of it, 196 hadn’t been much better.

Damn it, the alcohol wasn’t working fast enough. Quatre tilted his glass back and was swilling Riesling like a barbarian when there came a knock at his door.

He sucked the expensive wine into his windpipe, choked, coughed explosively into his glass, and blew half of the contents onto the floor. To make matters worse, a few tablespoons took a wrong turn and ended up coming out his nose.

“Just”—he croaked and hacked again, Austria’s finest dripping from every orifice in his face—“just a minute!”

Oh, how appropriate. The wanton lush, caught in the act by the teatotalling saint. That’s exactly what it looked like. Quatre chugged the last mouthful, dashed into the bathroom, grabbed a damp towel, tossed his empty glass into the dirty laundry hamper, threw the towel over the puddle on the floor, gave his face one last wipe with the sleeve of his robe, and opened the door.

Trowa—still shirtless, wearing a pair of pajama pants—stared at Quatre with deep, genuine worry. “Are you alright?” he asked softly.

“Sure!” chirped Quatre, although the alcohol was burning his nostrils and his eyes were watering and his face was bright red. “Why do you ask?”

“I just had a feeling. Can I come in?”

“Sure!” he repeated in that same falsely cheerful tone. He stood aside and let Trowa in, staring longingly at his strong, well-sculpted back. Deep in the center of his being, Quatre felt a sharp jab of disappointment. Maybe it was his upbringing, being raised in an aristocratic household where the common and carnal sides of life were shunned, that caused him to feel so ashamed. In a family that exalted intellect and enlightenment above creativity and passion, there was precious little room for the sort of crude but critical sexual discussions that the bourgeois class had the luxury of receiving.

And it wasn’t that Quatre thought himself above such things; he had simply been told all his life that powerful sexual impulses—like the ones he experienced around Trowa, which were increasing in both occurrence and intensity—were vulgar, certainly inappropriate of the son of the illustrious Zayid Winner. How humbling it was for Quatre to realized he was just as base as the next man, subject to the same lusts and desires that were never spoken of in polite company.

 _Yup_ , declared a very Duo-esque voice. _Just another dude with a dick. Welcome to Club Testosterone, buddy boy._

“Club _what_?”

Quatre flinched and clapped his hand to his face. “Oh God, I did it again, didn’t I.”

“Hey, it’s okay,” said Trowa gently, taking him by the arms. “It just caught me off guard. Here, sit down. You look upset.”

“ _That’s_ an understatement,” Quatre sighed, dropping onto the bed. “I really wish I could turn this damn thing off.”

Trowa crouched down in front of him, balancing on the balls of his feet.“I’m sure I’ll feel the same way myself sometime. Right now I still find it kind of amazing, being connected like this. It made what happened last night even more special.”

He reached out and grasped Quatre’s wine-sticky hand. “You know how hard it is for me to express my feelings. Being able to open myself to you and just let everything out—it’s great. I couldn’t ask for a better way to communicate with you. The way you accepted me, you didn’t say anything but I knew exactly what you were feeling. This is a beautiful gift to have, Quatre. And right now I feel like there’s something you want to ask me. Am I right?”

Quatre nodded and looked down at his lap, where their hands lay joined. “Trowa, do you want me?”

“Of course I want you.”

“No, I mean, do you _want_ me? As in desire. Sexually.”

“Yes.”

Quatre raised his head, stunned by the speed and surety of the reply.

Trowa was gazing at him seriously. “I do desire you, Quatre. There’s nothing in the world I want more than to be yours. _Truly_ become yours, and make you mine. But it’s been a while. I’ve been celibate ever since . . . him.”

Oh God, there it was, like an ice pick in the aorta. It was just as Quatre feared: Trowa had an aversion to sex just like he had an aversion to alcohol, and all because of that fucking Barton bastard, that sick sonofabitch who placed his ugly hand on this beautiful soul and ruined him, made him afraid of the most glorious thing in human existence. Quatre hoped the fucker was burning in hell right now; if he were still alive, he’d be begging for Satan to save him. Oh yes, Quatre would see to _that_. He’d have made that perverted piece of shit suffer, made him wish he—

“Whoa, whoa,” Trowa murmured, cupping the trembling fists. “Quatre, please, don’t be so angry.”

“I’m not angry. I’m fucking furious.”

“Please.” Trowa touched his cheek. “This isn’t the Quatre I know.”

“I hate that man,” he spat. “I hate what he did to you. I want to make him pay. I want to hurt him as much as he’s hurt you.”

“I understand, believe me, Quatre. But he’s dead. There’s no use in wishing for these things. It’s pointless, don’t you see? He’s turning you into something angry and vengeful, and that’s not who I fell in love with. Please, don’t give a dead man more power than he deserves. You helped me bury him last night; let’s not dig him up again.”

Tears filled Quatre’s blinking eyes.

Trowa sucked his bottom lip meditatively, reading the hot waves of fear and frustration that poured from Quatre, gathering his thoughts into words.

“I’m not afraid of sex,” he said quietly. “And I’m not afraid of you. I’ll tell you what scares me, Quatre—it’s the thought that I might take pleasure in our . . . lovemaking for all the wrong reasons. I’m scared of becoming just like him.”

All the malice rushed out of Quatre like oxygen in an imploding spacecraft. “Oh, Trowa,” he uttered. “You’re _nothing_ like him.”

“Not now. But there’s no telling what I might . . .” He bowed his head, his hair shadowing his face.

“Trowa. Look at me.”

He did.

Quatre stared deeply into him, hoping that the compassion and assurance he was radiating soaked into Trowa’s fearful heart. “I am a consenting adult, and so are you. I love you. I trust you. I know you don’t want to hurt me. That’s what makes us different.” He drew a breath and untied the belt of his bathrobe, shrugged it off. “You have nothing to be afraid of anymore.”

Trowa’s mouth opened slightly, eyes flickering over Quatre’s skin before coming to rest on his face.

Quatre smiled, somehow managing to look both pure and precocious, and crawled backward to the center of the bed. He folded his legs beneath himself and beckoned for Trowa to join him. “We’ll go slowly. Come, sit. Make yourself comfortable.”

Blood pounded in Trowa’s head at the invitation; rising to his feet, he haltingly grasped the waistband of his pants, then pulled them down and kicked them off.

“Oh Trowa,” Quatre murmured, “you’re beautiful and”—his tone dropped to an astonished whisper—“cut.”

Trowa froze, completely at a loss for words. He looked down at his circumcised penis, as if it would explain itself. “Is . . . that a problem?”

“No! No, it’s no problem at all,” said Quatre hastily. “I-I’m cut too. See? It’s just rather uncommon. I thought it was only performed by those who still observe the religious traditions.”

“Funny you should say that.” Trowa  sat down beside him. “Cathy seems to recall attending my bris.”

Quatre’s eyes went wide.

“She was very young,” he continued, “maybe three or four, but she remembers the ceremony. She was upset because I cried a lot. She also remembers, very vaguely, our mother lighting the Shabbat candles every Friday evening.”

“Wow,” said Quatre reverently. “That’s amazing. And to think, the two of us meeting one another, both descendants of the same Abrahamic covenant. What are the odds?” He trailed off, gaze settling between Trowa’s legs before rising with a keen twinkle. “May I?”

There was so much sweetness and innocence in the question that Trowa nearly laughed. “Of course,” he said. “I’d like nothing better.”

Quatre grinned delightedly, and when he took him in his small, cool hand, Trowa let out a slow breath and felt himself throb and grow.

“Oh my dear Trowa,” Quatre breathed, “you’re absolutely gorgeous.”

Trowa licked his lips, watching the expressions shift across Quatre’s face as he explored his body. Wonder. Appreciation. Desire, hot and dark and private. He saw that Quatre was also becoming aroused, his chubby pink cock stiffening until it hung straight and hard between his thighs, a single pearl of pre-ejaculate forming at its tip. As much as he loved how Quatre was touching him, he was overcome with the desire to suck off that pretty little drop before it was smeared away. An aperitif, as it were.

“Lean back, Quatre,” he uttered, and his head was between Quatre’s legs before his back touched the sheets.

When his tongue touched the velvet-smooth skin, an involuntary moan escaped Quatre’s mouth. Trowa pursed his lips around the head and probed the slit with his tongue. Then, with a single smooth motion, he closed his eyes and took Quatre all the way down.

“Oh G- _God_ oh my—” Quatre bent his knees, reached down between his legs and grasped the sides of Trowa’s head, feeling him move slowly up and down. “Oh Trowa. That’s . . . you’re . . .”

Precome oozed onto the back of Trowa’s tongue, bitter and sharp—contradictory of its sweet, mild owner—and he quickly swallowed the taste. The motion produced a soft whine, followed by a louder one when he pulled back and let Quatre’s cock plop onto his thigh with a wet smack.

“I want to make you come,” he said through glossy lips, “and then I want to make love to you until you come again. Is that alright?”

Breathless and flushed, Quatre propped himself up on his elbows so he could look at Trowa. “Oh yes. Yes, but—what about you?”

Trowa’s cheek twitched, a peculiarity that Quatre had long ago learned was an indication of embarrassment. “Um. It takes me a while to . . . climax. I’m a slow burner. I ought to be ready by your second time, though.”

“Oh. Well, that’s perfect. I’ve always wanted to enjoy a long, romantic evening with you.” Quatre smiled like a schoolboy, wholesome and gentle. The very sight of it soothed Trowa’s nerves. For a moment, at least.

“Damn.”

“What?” asked Quatre, smile fading.

“Do you have any condoms?”

“No. Can’t we just do without? ”

Trowa bit his lip. He himself was clean, but he was ninety-nine percent certain Quatre was a virgin and . . . well. “It could be messy. And you might tear a little. Blood and semen . . . it might ruin the experience, not to mention the sheets.”

Just below his face, Quatre’s penis gave an excited twitch.

“You know,” he said huskily, “this shouldn’t be turning me on, hearing you talk about tearing me and blood and wrecking the bed, but it does.” His eyes met Trowa’s, the turquoise irises now thin rings of color around huge, dilated pupils. “Why don’t we do this: you grab a few towels, I’ll get some oil, and then we come back here and spend the rest of the night finding out what position is our favorite.”

Trowa stared for a beat before he uttered, “Give me ten seconds,” and jumped up, rushing for the guest room linen closet.

Quatre scrambled off the bed and into his bathroom, ignoring his terribly undignified reflection in the mirror, yanking open cabinets until he located the mineral oil. He ran back to the bedroom with his prize, threw himself onto the bed, and tried to calm himself. Suppressing a hysterical giggle, he managed to wipe the grin off his face just as Trowa reappeared, carrying several towels. Quatre rolled out of the way and together they spread the towels on the bed, fumbling and frantic. At one point they glanced up at each other, smiled, and started to laugh.

“We must look ridiculous,” Quatre snickered.

“I’m sure _I_ do,” said Trowa, “but you’re still lovely. As always.”

Oh, the love he had for this man. Quatre held out his arms. “Come here.”

Crawling on his knees, Trowa heeded the request, slipping into Quatre’s embrace and toppling him into the pillows with a chuckle and a kiss. Naked limbs folded over one another, hands pawing through hair and caressing shoulders and backs, their mouths busily tasting and exploring.

_I’ve wanted to do this for years._

_Yes. Since the music room._

_I would have taken you that day, Quatre. We could have been together all this time, if I hadn’t been so afraid._

_I was too young. So were you. Now is perfect._

_Yes. Now is perfect._

Trowa dropped his head to Quatre’s chest and clasped his lips to the small, hard bead of a nipple, sucking it until it became a soft red bud. Quatre moaned and arched as the motion was repeated with his other nipple, his cock gradually swelling to full arousal again. Trowa pressed a line of kisses down Quatre’s belly—

_I’m so out of shape, ugh, so squishy._

_I love your softness. You’re beautiful._

—giving special attention to the smooth white scar just left of his navel, and finally took him into his mouth, sucking slowly and lovingly, using his tongue to find exactly what Quatre liked. It was difficult at first (he seemed to like everything), but there were a couple techniques he enjoyed more than others. Like when Trowa swallowed him deep and frogged the back of his tongue against his sensitive glans. Quatre had cried out and grabbed a handful of Trowa’s hair, pulling it gently as he began to roll his hips. Trowa adjusted to the rhythm, and a few moments later Quatre went rigid, shouted “Oh _God_ , Trowa, _yes_!” and climaxed, shuddering and shaking.

Trowa was ready, and when he felt the jerk of impending orgasm, he opened his throat and took Quatre to the hilt, pressing his nose into the dark blond curls and swallowing the whole load. It never touched his tongue, which was how Trowa preferred it. He liked the act but not the taste.

“Wow,” Quatre panted. He basked in the afterglow, unable to stop smiling. “That was just . . . _wow_. You’re going to have to teach me how to do that sometime.”

“With pleasure.”

Quatre sat up, a devilish sparkle in his eye. “Now,” he said, “what can _I_ do for you?”

As it turned out, there were quite a few things Quatre could do, some of which made Trowa question his assumptions about Quatre’s virginity. But these were only passing thoughts—and there weren’t very many of those going through Trowa’s head after Quatre poured oil on his torso, straddled his hips, and began to massage him. Aside from the relaxing sensation of Quatre’s small but strong hands gliding over his chest and kneading his muscles, the feeling of his hottest, most intimate region sitting squarely on Trowa’s awakening erection was wonderfully titillating. He reached up and took hold of Quatre’s hips, giving a tentative nudge.

Quatre released a sigh and looked at him with eyes half-lidded. _Is this what it’s going to be like when you’re inside me?_

Trowa shivered, his cock throbbing against the smooth cleft of Quatre’s rear. _No. It’ll be better._

_Show me. Oh please, Trowa, show me. I’m ready._

“Not yet, angel. Lie down, and hand me the oil.”

Quatre reclined against the pillows as Trowa poured oil into his hand, then laid beside him. “Spread your legs, Quatre,” he whispered, “and let me know if it hurts.”

But Trowa was so gentle, so tender and careful, that Quatre felt nothing but pleasure when he was penetrated. He was utterly calm and relaxed, reduced to jelly by Trowa’s intermittent, reassuring kisses, and was able to take two fingers very quickly. By the time Trowa added a third, Quatre’s cock was oozing again and his eyes had gone dark, eclipsed by his pupils.

“This isn’t just to prepare you,” said Trowa. “It’s to help me find your prostate.”

“So you can hit it with your . . .”

“Yes.”

Quatre closed his eyes. “God, that makes me so hot, Trowa. Will you come in me?”

“Only if you want.”

“I do. I want to have you in me, like I’m in you right now.” He reached up and touched Trowa’s bottom lip with his fingertips, trailing them down his throat, his chest, his stomach. When he grasped Trowa’s penis, it was full and heavy, leaving smears of precome on Quatre’s thigh.

_You’re so hard._

_That’s because I want you._

_You’re going to put this into me, all of it?_

_Yes. I’ll be gentle._

_I can’t wai_ —“oh Trowa yes, right there!”— _you found it, that’s the spot. Hurry hurry put it in fill me I want to feel you_ —

Trowa’s fingers disappeared, and almost immediately he was pressing into Quatre, feeling his warm, slick opening slowly spread and embrace him.

“More, oh Trowa, more,” Quatre whined, thrusting his hips forward and taking another inch. “All the way.”

“I’m—I don’t want to hurt you, Quatre.”

“You’re not, you won’t, oh Trowa, _please_.”

Far be it from Trowa to deny his beloved’s wishes—and this deliberate caution was maddening to him as well. In one quick movement, he pushed forward and buried himself in Quatre, who sucked in a loud gasp.

“Did I hurt you?”

“No. No, oh Trowa, move in me—yes, like that, oh _Trowa_ —”

He drew back and slid in again, smooth and sleek and easy, into the exquisite clutch of Quatre’s body. He increased his speed a little with each stroke until Quatre was rocking beneath him, looking as if he were locked in a state of permanent, ecstatic bliss. 

_I have dreamed of this moment it’s better than I ever imagined_

_You feel so good to me, angel_

_I love you, love this oh my body_

_so happy never been this way love you so much_

Their thoughts ran together, streamlike, until it was hard to say whose mind belonged to whom. It was the ultimate fusion of all states of being: physical, emotional, psychological, spiritual. Wide open in every sense, flowing as one, achieving a level of intimacy few have ever experienced. The love that beat through Quatre’s heart echoed in Trowa’s soul, and the euphoria sizzling through their bodies awoke parts of their brains a neurologist would have believed unreachable without the use of psychedelic drugs.

It was an incredible harmonization and Quatre deliberately neglected stimulating himself in order to make it last. As it turned out, he didn’t need to. Between what Trowa was doing to his body—plunging in and out, striking that sweet spot with each thrust—and what love had done to his brain, he rose to the pinnacle of delirium after a few minutes—too few, it seemed—and came crashing down with a scream. And he took Trowa with him, flooding his mind with a torrent of raw, raging emotion, spurring him to an explosive climax. All Trowa could do was lace his fingers with Quatre’s and release himself, buried and bursting, into the warm embrace of his flesh. He didn’t even have the wind to cry out.

Quatre was the first to regain his senses several minutes later, groggily pulling himself out from under Trowa’s dead weight, his belly sticky with sweat, semen, and mineral oil. Trowa stirred and groaned, pushing himself up with shaking arms. They gazed at each other wordlessly: two exhausted, disheveled wrecks whose souls had been reamed like a couple of oranges.

“Is it going to be like that every time, you think?” Quatre finally asked.

“I don’t know,” said Trowa. “But if it is, I think we ought to pace ourselves until we get used to it.”

“That sounds like a good idea.”

Trowa rolled over and sat on the edge of the bed, running a hand through his hair. “I’m . . . a mess. Think I’ll get a shower and find someplace to collapse for the next ten hours.”

“That sounds like a good idea, too,” Quatre grunted, and crawled over to his side. “Mind if I join you?”

“Please. Your bath or mine?”

“Let’s use mine. The shower stall is big enough for two.”

“Think you can walk?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.” Trowa looked at Quatre, and smiled with half of his mouth. “You can help me, then.”

* * *

Time, Quatre realized, is terribly inconsistent. It either passes too slowly or too quickly, the latter being especially true when you’re with the person you love. Trowa’s week passed in a blur of smiling days and intimate nights, culinary misadventures and musical interludes. Quatre played the piano for him in the evenings, a quiet ritual in which they opened their minds to one another and basked in the sublime impressions the music made upon their hearts. One night Quatre played the new piece he was working on, a sparkling little ballade called _Stardust and Rainbows_ , the meaning of which he later explained to Trowa over a dinner of _spaghetti al formaggio_.

“If you were to write a song about us,” asked Trowa, “what would you call it?”

Quatre set down his glass and said, “A masterpiece.”

They were only able to keep their faces straight for a few seconds before succumbing to laughter. Trowa shook his head and said that there was plenty of cheese in the sauce already, thank you, angel, and Quatre pretended (very poorly) to be offended.

Now, as Trowa stood in front of him at the spaceport, wearing his bag and leather jacket, Quatre began to think hard about how their song might sound, what it would be called; if it would follow the codas and crescendos of their lives thus far, if the final note would be short or sustained. He decided he’d begin the preliminary composition as soon as he finished _Stardust and Rainbows_. This was an undertaking he felt irresistibly compelled to pursue.

Holding Trowa’s hands, he glumly asked him to give his regards to Catherine.

“I will,” said Trowa.

“When will I see you again?”

“Soon, I hope. We usually get a week or two between each stop on our tour. Our last is in Moscow, at the end of November. Then we’re off for the rest of the year.”

“Ah.”

Trowa apprehensively wet his lips. “If it’s not too much of an imposition, I’d like it if you could spend the holidays with me and Cathy. If—if you don’t have other plans, of course.”

“No, that sounds great! I’d . . . really like that.”

They smiled at each other. Overhead, the intercom announced that Shuttle Flight 23 to L4 Hub was boarding.

“I love you, Quatre.”

“I love you too, Trowa.”

They came together and embraced tightly for a few moments, then Trowa pulled back, held Quatre’s cheeks, and pressed a kiss to his lips.

_I’ll see you soon._

“I know,” said Quatre.

He gave a parting kiss to Quatre’s brow and slowly released him, then turned and blended in with the rest of the crowd making their way toward the gate. Quatre sighed heavily and stuck his hands in his pockets.

_Maybe someday we’ll both wind up there. Permanent cell mates._

A wistful smile came to his face.

Yes. Maybe someday.

* * *

It was shortly after 03:20 when the phone rang. An arm thrust blindly out from beneath the covers and groped for the handset, thumb pressing a button to silence the urgent bleating.

Only half awake, Quatre brought the phone to his ear. “Hey Duo,” he mumbled.

“ _A-ha! So you_ are _psychic!_ ”

“No, I’ve got caller ID.”

“ _Oh_.”

Quatre omitted mentioning that he still hadn’t opened his eyes. “What’s up?”

“ _Well, I was—hey, I didn’t call at a bad time, did I? Sounds like you mighta been sleepin_.”

“No, I was just . . . lying in bed with the lights out and my eyes closed.”

“ _Aw shit. I’m real sorry about that. I musta got my math wrong when I was calculatin the time zones. You’re at CTC minus eight, right?_ ”

“CTC plus eight.”

“ _Dammit, I am_ always _gettin that confused. I’m sorry, man_.”

“It’s okay,” said Quatre, rolling over and tucking Lionel under his arm. “What’s the problem?”

There was a pause on the other end. “ _It’s uh . . . well it’s, I wouldn’t really call it a_ problem _, but it’s a little depressing to talk about and I know you might get mad at me if I was to tell you and_ —”

“Duo.”

“— _okay okay, Heero left me_.”

Quatre grimaced. “Look, Duo. I know the pain is still fresh in your heart, but that was years ago and you really shouldn’t keep—”

“ _No. I mean, he_ just _left me. He came back, Quatre_.”

Quatre sat bolt upright. “ _What_?”

“ _He just showed up at my door one day with a hard drive. He’s . . .  ah hell, it’s a long story, but basically he’s tryin to find out who his parents were and he brought me this beat up old disk that might have information about them on it, so he stayed with me while I got it workin again and he, we uh, we agreed to give our relationship another try and things were goin’ great and then . . ._ ”

“Then?” Quatre prompted.

“ _He found her_ ,” said Duo. “ _His mother. Her file was on the drive, but half the information was missin and he wanted to keep searchin so . . . he left, and I . . . I was wonderin if I could come over to L4 and stay with you for a little while. I’m just, uh. It’s a little bit quiet here, y’know?_ ”

“Well of course, but”—Quatre’s mind ratcheted through the information, trying to process it all—“didn’t he tell you where he was going?”

“ _No. But if I know Heero, he’s probably headin over to see our good friends at Elemental. Especially Gold_.”

“Gold?” Quatre frowned. That was Lady Une’s codename. “Why would he want to see her?”

“ _Because Heero’s mother was one of the original members of OZ, handpicked personally by Duke Dermail to work in covert ops. Most of her personal information was missing, but her employment record was still—_ ”

“Hold on. You’re—are you saying that Heero’s mother was associated with the _Romefeller Foundation_?”

“ _We don’t know. But Gold might_.”

There was a brief silence on both ends of the line. When Duo finally spoke again, his voice hollow and unreadable:

“ _By the way, his real name is Orion. Orion Yoshida_.”


End file.
